


And Nowhere to Go

by Nonymos



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: ...oh WAIT, ...which becomes not dubious at all, Abuse, Amorality, Anal Sex, Biting, Body Modification, Dehumanization, Dubious Consent, Evil!Tony Stark, For Science!, Forced Orgasm, Fucking Machines, Hair Pulling, Handcuffs, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Hurt Steve, M/M, Milking, Multiple Orgasms, Muzzles, Not safe not sane and did I mention not consensual?, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Riding Crops, Surgery, Tony is one goatee away from being a supervillain, in fact you might call it straight-up non-con, okay so, sort of, sub!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He gave a mocking, dirty smirk. “Basically, Rogers, you need to be worked hard and put away wet.”</em>
</p><p><em>Steve’s gut did something strange when he heard those words, but he absolutely refused to acknowledge it as anything else than fury.</em><br/> </p><p> </p><p>Tony wants to find out about Steve's limits. Steve never knew how to back down from a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to read the tags - this is a dark AU. Tony Stark may be a _reformed_ weapons manufacturer, but that didn't magically make him a good man. Steve has a lot of issues and all of them stem from anger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You know, Rogers,” Tony said nonchalantly, “we’re a match made in heaven.”

Steve glowered at him and violently tugged at the handcuffs holding his arms up, but there was little else he could do. He was sitting on the bare floor, still in t-shirt and slacks from his run; his wrists were clasped in strong stainless steel manacles he couldn’t wrench apart. A thick Kevlar muzzle was strapped tight over his mouth, buckled behind his head and under his jaw.

Tony wasn’t even looking at him; he was watching several displays of Steve thrashing the bag in the gym, Steve doing push-ups one-handed, Steve sparring with Natasha, Steve running endlessly under the rising sun.

“You’re a miracle of science,” Tony went on, “and I’m a _man_ of science. I’m supposed to question miracles, take them apart, see what makes them tick. Besides, my dear old daddy practically _made_ you—you’re a family heirloom, and I made a living out of stretching the limits of his legacy.”

He finally looked at Steve, with a gleeful sparkle in his dark eyes. “What I’m saying, Cap, is that I’m meant to make you sweat.”

Steve snorted in a clearly doubtful tone. Tony raised his eyebrows, then walked across the room to crouch in front of him.

“If I take off the muzzle,” he said, “will you bite me?”

Steve’s glare could have pierced through solid concrete, but it only made Tony grin more brightly.

“Guess I’ll risk it.”

He extended his hand, but Steve was tucking his chin in to glower at him, making it impossible to reach the buckle under his jaw. Tony huffed a little, then snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s eyes. “Chin up, Rogers, I haven’t got all day.” He gave him little slaps on the cheek, annoyed. “Come on.”

Steve felt himself heat up at this treatment, but the damn manacles _wouldn’t give,_ no matter how much his arms bulged as he pulled on the restraints; and there was nothing he wanted more than to speak up his mind. Still, when he lifted his chin up, it felt like he was giving up and Tony’s little smirk didn’t help.

“Never backs down, uh?” he murmured, unbuckling the chin strap first. “We’ll see about that.”

He unbuckled the strap behind Steve’s head and pulled the muzzle off. Steve worked his jaw for a second, mentally rehearsing everything he wanted to say, and apologizing to his late mother in advance.

“You don’t sweat,” Tony went on conversationally, like this was all perfectly normal. “You never do. It drives me fucking crazy. Erskine drove you to the peak of mankind but didn’t _strip_ you of your humanity. There must be a limit and I live to find those.”

He gave a mocking, dirty smirk. “It’s not rocket science. Basically, Rogers, you need to be worked hard and put away wet.”

Steve’s gut did something strange when he heard those words, but he absolutely refused to acknowledge it as anything else than fury.

“If you think abducting me—”

 _“JARVIS_ abducted you, which was ridiculously easy, by the way.”

It was painfully true; sleeping gas in the elevator had been enough for Steve to go down like a brick. Not that he’d _expected_ fucking Tony Stark to assault him in his own damn home.

“Stark, this is _way_ over the line,” Steve barked, jerking against the restraints. “Let me go right now! I’m not your damn toy!”

“Debatable,” Tony said.

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Also debatable. And irrelevant,” Tony added. “What’s relevant right now is the scientific challenge we’re facing. Do you have limits? Can I find them? Can I push them? I want to find out.”

Steve tried to calm down.

“You’re not the first one to try,” he said sourly. “But I’m not gonna be your lab rat. Not today, not _ever._ I got my fill of this.”

“Obviously not,” Tony grinned.

Steve stopped breathing for a second, without fully understanding why. Tony’s dark eyes were planted into his.

“But let me fill you in before filling you up,” he said in a low voice.

He was still crouching in front of Steve, playing with the Kevlar muzzle. “I need you on an empty stomach for this, which is why I took you before breakfast,” he began. “This _is_ actually a challenge, Rogers. I’m saying I can break you. You think I can’t. I’ll be damned if the forties win this round, but if they do,” he grinned, “we’ll switch.”

Steve hadn’t expected that. He stopped struggling for a second.

“Switch?” he repeated.

“Only fair,” Tony shrugged. “I’ll be _your_ test subject. I’ll do it your way. I’ll stop pushing and I’ll never put up a fight again.”

Jesus, the man was _insane._ But—this was actually horribly tempting. There were many things Steve could appreciate about the twenty-first century, but Tony Stark’s arrogance and single-mindedness were not among them. He would just not _listen_ and regularly threatened the safety of everyone in the field—and this little morning abduction went to show just how sketchy the Stark morals still were.

Steve didn’t doubt for a second that he’d stay true to his word, though—challenges _were_ maybe the one thing they had in common. And maybe it was what made him pant, “For how long?”

Tony pondered. “A month?”

“A _year,”_ Steve growled.

The dark eyes drilled into him for another minute. Then Tony grinned and said, “Deal.”

He got up and Steve found himself wondering what he’d just agreed to. He tried to remember what Tony had just ranted about.

_Make me sweat._

He snorted again; he’d run miles and miles and bench-pressed ridiculous weights under the watchful eyes of scientists who’d all had to give up at some point. He did not get tired. He did not give up. He did not _sweat._

Whatever Tony dished out at him, he’d take it like he’d taken everything else; and having him on a leash for a _whole year_ would be largely worth his while.

Or so he told himself when he tugged at the manacles again. Steve was almost sure Stark would have released him if he’d refused the deal, but _almost sure_ was definitely not enough in this situation. He had no idea what he actually planned to do.

Tony put the muzzle on a table and took something from a drawer—something long and thin and flexible, which he twirled in his hands as he came back.

It was a riding crop.

“JARVIS, spread him,” he said nonchalantly. “Configuration one.”

The manacles hummed and Steve realized he wasn’t chained to a wall, but to an entire robotic structure he couldn’t see. His wrists were separated, but still held tight and spread apart till his arms were wide open, then pulled up and _up_ till he had to kneel up instead of sitting down on the floor. He stared down, swallowing.

The crop slightly tapped his cheek. “Eyes up, Captain.”

Steve glared up, but his gut was twisting again and this time, he couldn’t lie to himself about the nature of the heat pooling into his groin—it wasn’t just anger.

He held Stark’s gaze, refusing to look at the crop.

“You can’t hurt me enough,” he said. “Not in a hundred years.”

“This isn’t about pain, Cap,” Tony said a bit distantly. “I’m well aware people have tried that already. And, believe it or not, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Oh,” Steve deadpanned, feigning surprise. “But this, _this_ is fine, right?” he added, raising an eyebrow at the structure holding his hands up.

“What,” Tony mocked, “do you want out?”

And Steve was stupid and stubborn, because he never backed down from a fight and this one was no exception. Hell, truth be told, he’d wanted to teach Tony Stark a lesson from day one; and now that the opportunity presented itself, he wouldn’t let it go, no matter how twisted. Better yet, he got to do it in the engineer’s own field, rather than beating him up on the mat where his victory wouldn’t mean much. Not to mention the year of obedience he’d been promised.

“Come on, then,” he urged. “Bring it on.”

Tony smiled wickedly and tapped his cheek again. “You’ve got a lot of anger, Rogers.”

“Keep doing that and you’ll find out just how much, pal,” Steve spat.

The hissing blow was so unexpected he didn’t even understand what had happened at first; but when the white-hot pain caught up with him, he realized that the crop had struck him hard across the face. He could feel a red welt blooming already on his cheek.

“Don’t sell me so short,” Tony said, voice suddenly hard and low. “You haven’t won yet.”

Steve caught his breath. The stinging pain was going, almost as suddenly as it had come, but the tightness in his groin wasn’t getting any better.

“Didn’t stay above pain for very long, huh?” he panted.

Tony snorted, darkly playful again. “This isn’t pain, Cap.”

Steve had been tortured, twice, during his raids with the Howling Commandos; and he knew Stark had been through something similar in Afghanistan. He was right; this wasn’t pain, not when they were getting beaten up by monsters and aliens on a regular basis.

But Tony Stark had still struck him in the face with a goddamn _riding crop._ And Steve was still kneeling on the floor with his arms above his head, and he hadn’t had any damn breakfast. Without thinking, he clenched his fists and tugged at the manacles again; Tony looked at the swell of his biceps with an appreciative eye.

“Dad had an eye for the good stuff, gotta give him that,” he said.

Steve hated the way he looked at him, like he was a fancy car. Or a piece of meat.

“You’re fucking perfect, Rogers. No wonder so many people want to deface your flag.”

He put the riding crop on the table, next to the muzzle, then picked up something shiny and metallic in a tray; Steve tensed but didn’t look away when Tony stepped closer and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

“Oh, JARVIS,” he said absentmindedly, “do me a favor and restrain the Captain’s ankles as well, will you?”

Steve felt hands of steel closing around his calves and fought them instinctively. Tony only grinned, as if to say he expected nothing less; then he casually slipped the scalpel—it was a scalpel—under Steve’s shirt and shredded it in one go, easily cutting through the tensed cloth.

Steve held in his breath of anger. He’d expected something like this, but he’d thought, stupidly, that Tony would stop there. But he sliced up his pants with the brisk, efficient movements of a surgeon, cutting across the belt and along the seams of the legs, then tugging the cloth away. In less than ten seconds, Steve was in his boxers, and he suddenly felt more vulnerable than he’d felt in a while.

 _Shit,_ he thought suddenly, eyes flicking down to himself.

Although there was no chance Tony wouldn’t have noticed, Steve’s blood still ran cold when he looked up and saw him with dilated pupils.

“I knew it,” he breathed.

Without any other warning, he grabbed Steve’s crotch in a rough, squeezing grip _;_ Steve’s hitching breath was stifled by the mouth crashing hard over his, Tony’s other hand fisting his hair to jerk his head back.

Steve moaned in protest, tugged against the hand holding his hair, then forcefully pulled back.

“What the _fuck?”_ he barked—feeling hot, too hot.

“Oh yeah,” Tony said, with a breathless grin. “Here we go.”

He still had him in hand and squeezed _hard,_ making his eyes flutter close against his will _._

“You don’t swear, Steve, don’t think I never noticed that ridiculous boyscout habit of yours. But—” he almost _crushed_ him and Steve gritted his teeth not to make a sound—“just gotta get you riled up, and look at what happens.”

He looked Steve in the eye, his dark eyes darker still with arousal.

“You a virgin, Rogers?”

Steve didn’t say anything, breathless and entirely unsure whether he was enjoying this—which was just wrong since he was pretty sure he shouldn’t have, and shouldn’t have even questioned it.

Tony crushed him harder, twisted and tugged until he made him wince. “Answer the question.”

“None of your damn business,” Steve gasped.

“I beg to differ,” Tony murmured hoarsely.

Steve let his head hang back, panting. Shit, shit, he was breathless. This was too much. If this was how Tony played this—it might _actually_ be too much.

To be fair, none of the other people who’d experimented on him had been this goddamn _crazy._

“Exerting yourself in the gym is stupid,” Tony said, “of course _that_ won’t work. But I can break you from the inside—literally—I can make you consume your own energy. I can turn you into your own worst enemy.” He grinned. “Backing out yet?”

Steve didn’t even think. “You _wish.”_

Tony’s flashing grin was his only answer—that and the scalpel which made quick work of Steve’s boxers until they were practically ripped off him. Steve couldn’t help it—he tried to bring his legs together, but his ankles were locked apart.

“Oh, come on,” Tony mocked. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

He dragged his nails across Steve’s perfect torso, leaving red trails that healed up almost instantly. Steve was breathing hard, harder than he’d ever breathed on the mat or after two hundred laps in DC. His eyes were watering, and he closed them, swallowing it back down.

“I was thinking you might like this,” Tony said in his ear. “You’re a living icon, Rogers. You’re just _dying_ for someone to take you down from your pedestal and drag you in the dust a little.”

He grabbed one of Steve’s ass cheeks, digging his fingers in. Steve tried to ignore the touch, but it was more brutally intimate than anything he’d ever felt, and his eyes snapped at Tony when his fingers slipped inside his crack.

Tony was looking at him, inches away from his face.

“Virgin, then?” he breathed.

“Go to hell,” Steve panted.

Tony smiled, then let go and straightened up. “You and me both.”

Steve was fully, painfully hard, leaking a little and dripping on the pristine floor. He was flushed with anger and shame, and not a small amount of arousal—which only added to the humiliation. The worst part was to know that Tony Stark was getting a kick out of this—was positively _relishing_ the defacing of this flag, as he’d put it himself.

The _worst_ part of that worst part was that he was somewhat right. There were many things Steve could appreciate about the twenty-first century, but people worshipping him was not one of them.

This—God—this felt _good._ No—not good—but _right,_ in an awful, sick, twisted way; like it was balancing out all the stalwart and wholesome things people usually expected of him. He’d never felt so intimately _dirty._

“There’s really no point in beating you up,” Tony said regretfully, “but maybe our next session can be devoted to finding a flogger that’ll actually leave marks. For today, we’ll stay simple.”

He looked up. “JARVIS, bring out the blocks. Configuration three.”

There was another whirr of machinery behind Steve; suddenly, the manacles around his wrists tugged up and forced him to get on his feet, stumbling, the ankle cuffs following suit. Something slid under his body and sort of scooped him up, whirring up to a low diagonal while the cuffs made him lie down.

At first, he thought it was just a steel table; the cuffs held his limbs splayed out, ankles and wrists pinned at the corners. But when he raised his head off the cool surface, he saw something between his spread legs that looked a little like a piston—all gleaming, impeccable chrome, just like the rest of it.

The intended use was obvious.

Steve let his head fall back down against the table, but immediately regretted it when the Kevlar muzzle was wrenched over his mouth again and threaded into the table to keep him from moving his head. He let out a sound of surprise and indignation, then glared at Tony as much as he could. He was surprised to realize he was trembling.

“I prefer muffled screams,” Tony informed him with a grin.

Steve closed his eyes and tried to pretend this _wasn’t_ making him even harder. He _was_ shaking, and panting, but the fear itself, the dread of imminent _violation_ was precisely what was driving him mad with lust. Tony was crazy enough to do it—crazy enough to grab Steve and rape him before breakfast like this was nothing but another experiment, and Steve was stubborn enough to treat the whole thing like this was nothing but another fight.

The machinery whirred again and he reopened his eyes, looking around, then moaning in protest when he felt his erection being stuffed into some kind of—was it a plastic tube? It swallowed him whole, uncomfortably tight, and emptied itself of air with a sudden suction noise, pulling hard. Steve jerked and fought the manacles, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He struggled to control his breath, panting through his nose.

“Private recording, JARVIS,” Tony said absently.

The humiliation of being _filmed_ made Steve tear up again with burning, hot tears of rage. He was vibrating with it, perversely dying for it to start so he could show him—show him that he wouldn’t—not so easily—

The crop made a sudden reappearance—hissed down to land a stinging blow on his balls; Steve arched and couldn’t hold back a muffled shout. It granted him another blow, harder than the first—this time, he managed not to scream, screwing his eyes shut.

But the finger that entered him without warning made him jerk bodily and gape at the ceiling, panting. It was cold with lube and he instinctively clenched against the invasion. It felt odd— _inside_ him, God, he couldn’t rationalize this into anything else than a violation, and he couldn’t rationalize either the arousal that just wouldn’t leave him alone.

Tony didn’t stretch him, simply checked him— _checked him,_ outlining him from the inside, pushing as far as he could _—_ and pulled his finger out.

Next was a blunt, cold pressure that made Steve arch again, eyes wide, alarms going off everywhere inside of him because God, _God,_ this was happening. This was it, this was—it pushed into him, forced him open, relentless and _huge,_ it felt huge, making him take every last damn _inch_ until it was forcefully seated inside.

Steve was shaking like mad, tears rolling down his cheeks, erection straining in its case of plastic. The sleek, gleaming toy inside him was big and heavy and cold, absolutely foreign, intruding in every possible way.

Which Tony promptly confirmed. “It’s filled with sensors—you’re adapting to the stretch remarkably fast, by the way,” he said. “Heart rate’s impressive, too.”

He grabbed Steve’s thigh and squeezed, nails digging in.  “But you _are_ looking a bit flustered,” he grinned.

Steve took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down, but of course Tony wouldn’t leave him any time to gather himself together. The toy started _moving,_ and even though it was slick with lube, Steve felt like it was fucking him dry, like it was chafing him on the way out and _splitting_ him open on the way back in.

He choked, arched as much as he could and let his eyes roll back. The pleasure was building up way too fast, coiling tightly in the pit of his stomach, and just like the toy, it was enormous and intrusive and it would _tear him apart,_ he could just tell, it wouldn’t—he couldn’t—it was—

“I think we’re ready for that first one,” Tony said with dark pleasure. “JARVIS.”

The milking machine came to life, pulsing up and down Steve’s length in tight rings of pressure; he began to let out frantic noises, pulling desperately at his restraints—and his orgasm wrenched him apart with unprecedented violence, so chaotic and so savage Steve could hardly believe the stringently steadfast rhythm of the fucking machine had pushed _that_ out of him.

The milking machine stopped as well and Steve slumped back down, breathing hard. A hand grabbed his face and made him turn his head, as much as the muzzle would allow. Tony grinned down at him.

“That’s one, Rogers,” he said. “But you’re not sweating yet.”

Steve could barely focus; he was still shaking with the aftermath. But already, he felt his strength slowly swelling again, just like his erection which had never really flagged. When the fucking machine came to life again, Steve knew the second one wouldn’t be taken from him so easily; and he vaguely felt some kind of nasty glee as he remembered that this was all a challenge to begin with. He rolled his hips, closed his eyes. _I can do this all day._

Tony started dishing out numbers Steve didn’t understand; but he realized they were directly connected to him when he felt the fucking machine switch angles, orienting itself inside of him even as it continued its relentless thrusting.

It rubbed long and hard against _something_ inside of him and Steve’s hips jerked so hard he nearly arched off the table.

“Got it,” Tony smirked. “JARVIS, another ten degrees further down.”

The toy reoriented itself again; instead of rubbing against Steve’s prostate, it hit it _directly,_ pummeling into it and sending bursts of something that was too intense to be called pleasure, shooting raw pangs of stimulation up his spine. Steve let out a muffled protest, which turned into pleas when the thrusting only got harder. He struggled, eyes wide, and felt Tony’s hand lie flat on his abs to feel them cramping, felt him cup his pulsing balls, grip his quivering thighs, claw at his heaving chest. Steve had never felt so exposed—so _naked_ in his whole life.

“Fuck,” Tony said. “Look at you. _Desperate_ suits you well.”

He got closer and said in his ear, “Feeling dirty yet?”

Steve pressed into the table, his whole body jerking like an electrocuted frog with each punishing thrust. He was sweating— _sweating?—_ he was sweating, too slightly yet for Tony to notice, but sweating and trembling and blinking tears out of his eyes, moaning haphazardly into the muzzle and jerking uncontrollably, _God_ it was too much— _it was too much_ —it was too—too—m—

This time, his climax took him completely by surprise—his brain wasn’t registering the sensations as pleasure, but the stimulation was too severe to be ignored and his traitorous body obediently shot up into the plastic sleeve again, which buzzed to life only to collect his orgasm. He shouted, tugged at the cuffs _hard_ —so _hard—_ but they didn’t give and he let himself fall back down when it finally came to an end.

Which was only temporary. Steve caught his breath and steeled himself against his despair when the fucking machine started up again. He was loose and stretched now, and it fucked right into him without any resistance, _Good Lord, he’s filming this_ and he was beginning to have trouble breathing, trouble thinking.

“I expect the third to take a while,” Tony said, coming closer again. He grabbed Steve’s face like last time, but his grip felt gentler and Steve leaned into it, desperate for human contact after so much iron coldness. Tony brushed the strands of hair off his forehead, then kissed it; it made Steve tear up yet again, because he was pinned down and stretched wide and this tenderness was nothing but a cruel mockery of itself.

“I have a few projects running late anyway,” Tony said. “Have fun, Stevie.”

And he just walked away.

Steve didn’t even find it in him to protest—it would only have made the bastard happier, but being ignored—being left alone to be fucked open while Tony goddamn Stark worked on _something else—_ he closed his eyes, breathless, feeling the muzzle cut under his chin and behind his head, and was suddenly overwhelmed with the full extent of his helplessness.

It felt like he was left there for ages, the machine steadily ramming into him, the manacles mercilessly holding him down. The milking sleeve hummed into action at random intervals, tormenting him too briefly before it stopped again. Eventually, he felt it building, painstakingly but inevitably, not crashing down like the first one and not out of the blue like the second one, but slow and deep and surging like a tidal wave. It peaked for a terrible, white-hot second, then washed his body whole with overwhelming pleasure. He arched, for what felt like the hundredth time, emptying himself—it was all he could do, eyes rolling back again, shuddering as his lustful bliss rippled through him.

It was gone too soon—the fucking went on, and Steve’s eyes couldn’t even focus now. He was entirely lost inside himself, open wider, always wider, glistening— _dripping_ with sweat, shaking with exhaustion, drained with humiliation, hips stuttering as he shot up a fourth, a fifth and a sixth time into the milking machine which milked him indeed, conscientiously sucking him dry and then sucking him some more until he felt like he couldn’t take anymore, not another second of this, until he started to feel like he would physically be torn apart with the next thrust.

He almost sobbed in relief when the machine pulled out of him for good. Tony’s hands were there again. The milking machine released its suction with a wet noise, then went away as well. Steve lay there, utterly drained, unable to react as Tony’s hands settled on his hips and dug bruises into it—unable to react as he settled between his legs, and lined up.

Steve could only let out a weak, shaky noise. This would have been dangerous for Stark a few hours ago—Steve could have clenched down and trapped him inside, could have seriously injured him with his formidable core strength. But he was limp and open and laid bare for the taking, unable to put up any more of a fight.

“Think you got a last one in store, Rogers?” Tony smirked down as he pushed into him.

Steve wanted to shake his head, to beg for a rest, but the sheer warmth of Tony was intoxicating after so many hours—it had to be hours—in the hold of the machines—it made Steve’s tears roll down when he thought he didn’t have any left, and he stared at Tony with glassy, heady-lidded eyes, trembling uncontrollably when he bottomed out. Tony licked a long stripe up Steve’s sweaty neck.

“Got you wet,” he said hoarsely.

He unbuckled the muzzle and, seconds later, his burning hot lips crushed Steve’s, tongue forcing the way in. Steve hazily let him, dazed with the heat of it all, vaguely remembering he’d fought the last kiss but incapable to recall _why_ exactly. The helplessness was too much. The sensations were too much. He had nothing left.

Tony was kissing him, and fucking him slow and _deep,_ and his hands were holding Steve’s wrists in addition to the manacles, and Steve was so completely at his mercy, so utterly, utterly _defeated,_ that he came again, one last time, a lazy, drawn-out orgasm that left him completely boneless, completely warm—and Tony bit his neck bloody and emptied himself deep inside of him.

 

*

 

“So, looks like I won,” Tony said, smile playing on his lips.

Steve looked at the promised breakfast—never mind that it was the middle of the afternoon. Stark Tower was desert and silent, save for the two men eating together. Toasts, jam. Orange juice. Black coffee.

“You did,” he conceded.

He looked up, unable to muster the anger he should have felt. He was drained in an absolute, fulfilling way he’d never felt in years—never felt before at all, actually. Like he’d sweated all the fight out.

“So what now?” he asked.

“I—well, nothing.” Tony was surprised but quickly caught himself, and shrugged. “We’re done—I got what I wanted. I’m not gonna use that to blackmail you into anything else.”

“Yes, that would be immoral,” Steve said, absolutely deadpan.

A smile tugged up Tony’s lips; he drank a bit of coffee, then concluded, “You hadn’t wagered anything, so you’re off the hook.” His smile grew a bit more insufferable. “You did lose the enticing prospect of one whole year of obedience from me.”

Steve stared into space for a second. Then he said casually, “Rematch.”

He waited for Tony’s wide-eyed reaction to add, calmly:

“Double or nothing.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Wednesdays we write Stony dub-con PWPs, apparently. I blame Cristinuke. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this entirely unnecessary piece of devious porn. Hope you liked it, leave a comment! ^^


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, looks like some plot happened. Some creepy, creepy plot, fair warning. Also, double-check the tags, I made a few additions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What is _that?”_ Natasha asked.

Steve jerked his head to the side to break free from her grip, and pushed on the mat to get up; she gracefully got off him, without even stumbling, but it was too late. She’d seen the patch of shaved hair behind his left ear and the little black drop printed on the skin.

Steve knew he wasn’t good at lying, so he didn’t try.

“It’s a tattoo,” he said dryly, walking away to grab a towel even though there was no sweat to wipe off.

“You can’t get tattoos,” Natasha said, following him, her own snow-white skin glistening with perspiration.

It was true; Steve’s cells were perpetually regenerating, too fast for him to get drunk, and fast enough to swallow a tattoo in a matter of hours. But the black drop remained, like a branding, and just as hot—his body’s furious effort to fight off the ink made the skin burning to the touch, like a localized fever.

It was Tony’s work, of course.

Steve was still cuffed to the table and unable to protest when Tony had strapped his head again to keep him still and meticulously shaved his hair. The machine he’d pressed against his skull had somehow _stapled_ the tattoo into his skin, making Steve’s body jerk violently in pain.

“Well, would you look at that,” he’d murmured after a few minutes. “It’s holding. Take _that,_ dad.”

Then he’d freed Steve and told him to go take a shower and meet him for breakfast after, before vanishing. Steve felt so sore and hollow it took him nearly thirty minutes to muster the strength to get up and leave the lab.

Now that he’d rested and slept, he realized that the tattoo _hurt,_ like a steady pinprick of heat; but the humiliation was worse. It was a drop of _sweat,_ of course—Tony had marked him like cattle; or rather, like a cowboy making a notch on his belt. It was the mark of his claim. Of his victory. It was a reminder that he’d taken Steve, and _forced_ Steve, and gotten away with it.

It wasn’t very surprising that Natasha had spotted it so fast, but it was otherwise discreet, which Steve supposed he ought to be grateful for; Tony could have put it on his cheek. Or his goddamn forehead.

He dropped the towel, stared into space and vaguely wondered why he wasn’t telling Natasha everything.

Tony Stark was well-known for being an unbearable jerk, and the only reason he was in the Initiative at all was so he wouldn’t be _against_ it. But what he’d done to Steve yesterday proved that he was dangerously close from venturing into the straight-up maniac territory. Had in fact probably already crossed the line. But they needed him, needed his money and his fame and his genius, so they’d overlooked the rest. Until he’d apparently decided to see for himself just how much he could get away with.

Steve should have told, but he already knew he wouldn’t. His reasons were simple. Actually, they weren’t even plural.

He didn’t want to let the bastard _win._ It was already like that when he was scrawny and weak but too proud to call for help. If not for Bucky, he would have died ten times and then some. Per week.

The burning tattoo behind his ear was a constant reminder that Stark had already won once—but he’d made this so intimately personal that Steve could simply not bring himself to tell anyone. He was ashamed, yes, a burning shame that turned him _on_ and made him more ashamed, more guilty, as a result; but mostly, he was so furious he could barely think.

 _Take that, dad,_ Stark had said, and it made Steve’s blood boil all over again. He wasn’t a fucking _family heirloom._ He wasn’t there for Tony Stark to vent his daddy issues.

Although Tony definitely seemed to think so.

Natasha’s voice brought Steve back to the present. “Steve? Did you hear what I just said?”

“No,” Steve said honestly.

“I was asking you if you have any idea why Stark is suing the army.”

Steve blinked. “I—he’s doing _what?_ But why?”

“We don’t know,” Natasha said, drying off her neck and shoulders. “They’re holding court behind closed doors. Apparently, it’s been going on for a few months, but there’s been a leak yesterday.”

Steve groaned. Bad press—and bad press on _Tony’s_ part, no less—was something the Avengers definitely didn’t need. A lot of people blamed them for Manhattan, and the fact that their team seemed to burst at the seams already didn’t help. Banner had made it worse by leaving right after Thor had gone off-world. Steve had actually moved to Stark Tower at Fury’s express demand, to make them look more like a team.

“I’ll talk to him,” he said.

His tattoo was burning him.

 

*

 

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Tony said without looking up, elbow-deep into the entrails of a brand-new Maserati. His skin was marred with oil and grease, and his dark hair was slick and messy with it.

“I’ve got a feeling it is,” Steve yelled over the pounding bass of _Highway to Hell._ JARVIS lowered the sound for when Tony spoke, but only for him.“Turn off the damn music, Tony!”

Tony grinned up at him, teeth flashing white in his dirty face. “Make me,” he said.

Steve put his foot against the car and pushed it so hard it skidded across the floor to _smash_ into the wall; in two strides he’d gotten to Tony and hoisted him to his feet by the front of his shirt.

The music had stopped. Tony gaped at him with eyes very wide and very, very dark.

He slowly licked his lips, without looking away from Steve.

“Like I said,” he panted in the silence. “Just gotta get you riled up.”

Steve sharply tugged him closer. His blood was pounding in his ears and the little drop behind his ear burned him something fierce.

“Not a tattoo fan?” Tony asked innocently.

Steve suddenly let him go, making him stumble.

“Tell me what you’re doing with the military,” he ordered.

He wasn’t going to play Tony’s game again, not until they did it his way. He hadn’t forgotten what he’d told him— _double or nothing—_ and he’d meant it; but when the time came, he definitely intended to win.

Until then, he had to keep a cool head.

“You’re suing them. What for?”

Tony ignored him, eyes still dilated. “You’ve got some balls coming back down here,” he said. “So soon after yesterday?”

Steve’s gut clenched. Tony grinned as if he could tell.

“I knew you wouldn’t tell anyone,” he said. “You’re just too damn proud. Or maybe you’re beginning to realize I can get away with anything.”

He took a step closer. “Tell me one thing—is _that_ why you’re so hell-bent on winning? Because you like losing just a _teeny_ bit too much?”

“You’re sick,” Steve said in a low hiss.

“Oh, don’t make me the bad guy here,” Tony murmured.

The screen to Steve’s left turned on, but Steve didn’t look away from Tony. He didn’t need to look to know what it was. The sounds were enough—the faint, relentless squelching, and the noises he’d never thought himself able to make.

He tightened his hands into fists.

“You want to know why I’m suing the army?” Tony said, coming closer. “I’m suing them for you.”

Steve’s brow creased with confusion. “What?”

“Well, not for _you,”_ Tony amended, “but _for_ you. For the rights over you.” He flicked his chest. “That’s not your body, Rogers. It belongs to the military, just like Banner’s and a bunch of others. Except that Banner has a claim over himself since he developed his own serum.”

The Steve onscreen was having his first orgasm, moaning raggedly into the Kevlar muzzle. Steve clenched his fists till the knuckles turned white.

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

“You were created by my father and Erskine,” Tony said, “with military funding. Erskine’s family line was _thoroughly_ severed, but I’m still here. And I’m suing them for you.”

“Tony,” Steve said, talking slowly. “Tony, the army doesn’t _own_ me. You can’t own a person.”

Tony barked a laugh. “Oh, look at you talking to me in simple sentences, thinking I’ve lost it—it’s adorable, really.” He was grinning. “Of _course_ you have prevalence, Cap. Mind you, the legislation _was_ actually sketchy in the forties, one of those old laws we hadn’t touched in a while, but no sane judge will ever rule in favor of it today.”

The Steve onscreen was moaning again, more frantically, more desperately, like an animal.

“The army’s not entirely stupid and already changed tactics—they’re on your side now, and there’s no doubt I’ll lose,” Tony concluded casually.

 “Then why bother?” Steve exclaimed.

The moans in the video dissolved into frantic sobs when the second orgasm was wrenched out of him. He didn’t look, didn’t acknowledge any of it. (He didn’t even remember sobbing.)

“Because,” Tony said, “as long as they’re all busy arguing whether or not you belong to yourself—and trust me, I’ll make sure it takes them a long, _long_ time—your case remains in a legal vacuum, under no legislation whatsoever. Which means I can’t be convicted for this.”

“For wh—” Steve began, then he felt the pinch of the syringe in his neck and collapsed almost instantly.

 

*

 

When he woke up, he was strapped down on his stomach, with his arms on each side of his head, on an operation table with a hole for his face so all he saw was what was under it. Namely, the black eye of a camera.

He instinctively jerked in his restraints—but of course they didn’t give an inch. There even was a strap behind his skull, too, holding his head firmly down. His neck throbbed with pain where he’d been injected. _Fine,_ he thought, gritting his teeth, _dealing with Stark, rule one: always watch for the bots._

“Oh,” Tony said, “are you awake already?”

Steve pushed his face down into the smooth-edged hole and strained his eyes to the left, where Tony’s voice came from. There was blood. Bright red blood splattering the floor in huge drops.

He heard a quickening beeping and realized it was his own heart—there were electrodes on his back and neck monitoring him, and— _Jesus—_ a respirator down his throat breathing for him. He couldn’t feel anything under the belt—so to speak, since he was completely naked.

Pushing against the restraints again, he heard fresh blood trickle on the floor. God, _God,_ he had an open wound.

“Stop it,” Tony said negligently. “I don’t think you’d like me to mess this up.”

Steve wanted to writhe and scream because _mess WHAT up?_ but the respirator doubled as a fairly effective gag; and Tony was right—he’d only injure himself more if he fought him now. He tried to calm down, eyes wide, trembling, heart hammering so hard Tony would have heard it even without the monitor.

A hand came down to rub his damp neck in a parody of comfort. He screwed his eyes shut, and when he heard Tony’s little laugh, he just _knew_ that the camera wasn’t just recording his expression—it displayed it live on a screen for Tony to watch while he operated on him.

“Aw, Steve, you’re sweating again,” Tony grinned. “Looks like fear and invasive surgery also do the trick. Who would’ve known.”

 _I’m not afraid,_ Steve wanted to rage, but then he realized that he was, in fact, so terrified he could barely breathe. _Invasive surgery._

What the hell was Stark _doing_ to him?

God—Steve had listened to his little rant and missed the obvious yet again. Tony Stark treated the law like a contingency, not because it was outdated, but because it didn’t matter to him at all. As far as he was concerned, he already had every right over Steve’s body. _Experiment. Toy. Heirloom._  

And if what he said was to be believed, there was currently no jurisdiction stopping him from doing whatever he wanted to him anyway.  Steve was not legally human at the moment—just another machine to be taken apart and rebuilt to his fancy.

And Steve was afraid, so horribly afraid, and his anger was there, too, swelling towards Tony and towards himself for being so damn _stupid_.

“It’s your own fault, really,” Tony confirmed. “What the hell were you _thinking,_ saying _double or nothing_ to my face and coming back down here the very next day?”

Steve had trouble breathing normally. He strained against the straps again, and Tony let out a little laugh. “You’re hard, Rogers, did you know that?”

Steve couldn’t feel it, but didn’t doubt it—his humiliation was too thorough. Tony’s hand suddenly fisted Steve’s hair, making his breath hitch. He froze, unable to hear anything but the steady beeping of the monitor for a while.

“Is that what you want?” Tony whispered in his ear.

It sounded too close and too loud, like he was speaking directly inside his head. “To be fucked while you’re gutted open?” He tugged at Steve’s hair. “I can arrange that for you, Rogers. I can do a _lot_ of things. Romanov left the building half an hour ago. No one’s looking for you. No one’s coming for you. We’ve got the whole afternoon to ourselves before they figure out something is wrong.”

Steve couldn’t answer, but the beeping became more frantic and he began to hyperventilate into the respirator, chest heaving and straining against the straps. Without thinking, he struggled again, shook the table, desperate to break free.

“Steve,” Tony said, with a light but very real threatening undertone. _“Stop it.”_

Steve slumped against the steel, trembling all over, eyes wide—but he closed them when he realized he was putting on more of a show for Tony to watch.

“Don’t worry too much,” Tony said, “I actually know what I’m doing here. You think I just happened to have carbonadium blades lying around?”

Carbonadium would fight off Steve’s healing factor, long enough for Tony to properly cut him. It was proof that he’d in fact planned this, and while it _was_ somewhat of a relief—he wasn’t just butchering Steve at random—it went to show yet again that the moral code he waved around was absolute _bullshit._

Not to mention it meant his obsession with Steve wasn’t new at all.

Steve wondered why Tony was letting him see behind his mask, letting him gather evidence against him, but the answers he came up with were as cold and sharp as the blade slicing through him.

First of all, he had _no_ evidence. His body had already recovered from the rape and would likely— _hopefully—_ come out of the surgery unscathed. Second of all, Tony had built himself a juridical loophole that, while not infallible—no legal vagueness could change the fact that Steve was a human being—could probably protect him for several decades thanks to his army of lawyers.

Third of all, Steve himself was being strangely passive in the face of his own humiliation. As if somehow mesmerized by it. His anger was still there, but, like always when he was fighting for himself, it only made him run back for more instead of doing the smart thing and changing tactics—

Steve lost his train of thought when he heard a wet, horrible noise, and more blood splattering the floor. His eyes snapped open again, even though he knew he was allowing Stark to see the terror on his face. Jesus, he hadn’t felt like much of a person when Howard Stark had put him in his damn science coffin, but Tony was _purposely_ making him feel like this. Held down, splayed out, sliced up. And being filmed to boot.

There was nothing Steve could do—he still wanted to fight, still hadn’t backed down in spirit, but there was _physically_ nothing he could _do._ He could only wait for it to end. He pressed his forehead against the steel, closing his eyes, trying to breathe slowly. The cooling sweat on his skin made him shiver.

“Good,” Tony said in a low voice. “You’re getting it.”

He pressed down on Steve’s head, rubbed circles into his skull. “That look of resignation on your face.” He was whispering right into his ear again. “It’s _excellent_ jerk-off material.”

Steve would have put his back up, but he was trembling too hard. Tony Stark was vivisecting him and Steve could only lie there and take it.

“Not that I don’t like an audience—,” Tony said, and that was all the warning Steve got before he was put under again.

 

*

 

A sharp pain jolted him awake and he bolted up—only to freeze when he realized he was free. The straps were gone.

He looked around in quick glances, panting. He was still in the lab, still naked, sitting on the surgery table. There were no visible wounds on his body; but he the small gutter around the edge of the table was full of blood, and the air was heavy with its metallic tang. 

Tony was right there, casually walking away from him, putting down a gleaming contraption and grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. Looking at him, you wouldn’t believe anything more than a lengthy chat had taken place between them.

But Steve saw bloodied latex gloves in the trash can at his feet, and when he looked up, there was a tray of scalpels on another table nearby, next to various implements he couldn’t name. His body was still faintly numb from the anesthesia, and he felt deeply cold, down to his bones.

“What have you done to me?” he said under his breath.

Tony didn’t even turn to look at him. “You’ll find out in due time, Rogers. Now scram.” He made a shooing movement. “I’ve got a Maserati to resurrect, thanks to you.”

Before he even finished his sentence, all the lights in the lab turned red and the alarm blared over their heads. He threw his head back and groaned.

“This again.” He rolled his shoulders then sighed. “Well, duty calls. JARVIS? Mark LV.”

He opened his arms and let his latest armor envelop him in a swirl of red and gold metal, pieces flying around him to click seamlessly together. Steve could only stare at him, still in shock.

“Better go suit up,” Tony said, grinning at Steve just before the face-plate snapped into place. “You’re a bit underdressed.”

Then he took off, flew across the room in a flurry of papers and swiftly out through the launching pad at the end of the workshop.

Steve swore between his teeth, then got up and hurried to the elevator, expecting to feel pains or at least a bit of discomfort; but whatever Stark had done to him had properly and completely healed. It terrified him more than if he’d had a visible scar to at least clue him in.

Taking the elevator naked was incredibly awkward, especially since the walls were covered in mirrors and Steve couldn’t avoid facing his own nudity. Only when the doors closed did he remember the sharp pain which had woken him up. He swore again, out loud this time, and turned his head to check himself in the mirror.

He stared at his reflection for all of two seconds, chest heaving—then _shattered_ it with one hard punch.

Behind his left ear was tattooed another little black drop, right next to the first.

 

*

 

“Seriously, what _are_ those?” Natasha asked when Steve joined the rest of them in the Quinjet. Tony was already there, turning his back to him and talking to Barton, face-plate up.

Steve was still breathless, still vibrating with horror and disgust and that guilty, shameful feeling he was learning to know—the relishing of his own degradation. Even now, the tingling of the tattoos had him at half-mast. Tony’s lessons were nothing if not thorough.

The man was dangerous—more than dangerous; he was outright insane, and Steve knew he should’ve told Natasha the truth. She’d believe him—she’d take his word over Stark’s in a heartbeat. He opened his mouth.

But then Tony turned his head, just enough to meet Steve’s gaze in the corner of his eye; and Steve abruptly knew he wouldn’t do it. Because he remembered with full force how he’d felt on the surgery table in the end, how _resigned—_ Tony had made him give up, had made him helpless, had whispered that he’d masturbate to it later, and Steve _couldn’t_ stand the thought of anyone else fighting _this_ fight for him. Not this time. _The bastard’s mine._

This was a war, he realized distantly. And he’d lost the first two battles. But he’d fight on—Tony knew exactly what he was doing by keeping this personal; Steve was stubborn enough, proud enough to fight to the death as long as he was the only one at risk.

He still didn't know what had been done to him.

“Nothing a soldier can’t handle,” he finally told Natasha.

Tony smiled and looked away from him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. Should be five chapters or so. ^^' I thrive off comments!


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

The battle in itself was anticlimactic—yet another batch of survivors from the Chitauri attack. The mothership’s destruction hadn’t killed them all, and they were spasmodically coming back in increasingly frantic and ineffective waves to try and claw their way out of a world that had closed up on them. Steve almost pitied them. The media were being incredibly blasé about the whole thing, dryly commenting that the Avengers still weren’t done cleaning their own mess, and wondering in deadpan debates whether they’d be done before the holidays. No one was actually _worried._

Which meant Steve was entirely unable to explain the state of shock in which Barton found him.

He’d done well during the battle, feeling numb and detached like it was all happening to someone else; but when the last rogue alien went down and the adrenaline deserted him, he found that he wasn’t quite done freaking out about what had happened in the afternoon; and before he knew it he was leaning against a wall not to fall down.

“Cap?” Barton said, hurrying closer when Steve didn’t answer his first call. “Are you alright?”

Steve nodded haphazardly. He could do this. He’d gotten through worse.

Then Iron Man landed in a whirr of repulsors right behind Barton.

Steve’s gaze snapped up at him, but when his face-plate slid up, Tony’s eyes betrayed nothing but seemingly genuine concern underneath his usual devil-may-care attitude.

“You don’t look so good,” he said. “Are you wounded?”

Steve almost laughed. His tattoos were tingling.

“Better get him back to the Quinjet,” Barton said in a worried voice. “Medical will meet us there.”

 “I'll do it,” Tony said.

Steve’s breath hitched. He looked at Barton, but the archer was already glancing away. “Sure. I'll deal with those guys—” nodding at a small crowd of journalists, cops and paramedics— “and catch up with ya.”

“Roger that,” Tony said—and stepped forward to grab Steve and sling his arm over his armored shoulders, before blasting off.

Steve clenched at him with all his strength, suddenly and irrationally terrified that Tony would take him at ten thousand feet and then let go. He swallowed and strove to catch his breath as the city rushed past in a blur of colors. He was being paranoid. Tony wasn’t going to break his new toy so soon—but he was clearly enjoying the ride for the same reasons Steve hated it, flying erratically with brutal accelerations and sudden turns that made Steve even queasier.

Getting to the roof only took them a few minutes, but it felt like a goddamn eternity. Finally, _finally,_ Tony landed smoothly and let Steve stumble away from him.

“Seriously,” he said, but his eyes were now gleaming with malice. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

Steve glared at him, still breathless. Truth be told, beneath the thick glaze of his anger and fear, he was in _awe_ of Tony’s acting skills. He’d called him out as an arrogant, egocentric phony from day one— _take off that suit and what are you?_ but now that he knew just how _right_ he was, he couldn’t help being impressed. Romanov had nothing on this man.

 _Everything special about you came out from a bottle,_ Tony had replied, and Steve was only beginning to understand to what dreadful extent he'd meant those words.

The worst part was that Iron Man had been perfect today. With Hulk and Thor gone, he was the Avengers’ biggest gun, not to mention he’d taken onto himself to manage Barton’s and Romanov’s weapons. He was the backbone of the team.

The only true reason he’d let Steve see his hidden persona so plainly was because he knew Steve couldn’t do anything about it. No one else knew.

Tony came closer, armor whirring smoothly with each step. “Come on, Rogers,” he grinned. “Get over it already. We both know this wasn’t your first rodeo.”

Steve scowled at him.

“You had no right," he panted at last.

“I have every right,” Tony said with a sudden dark undertone in his voice. “Don’t you fucking _get_ it yet, Rogers?”

He stopped inches from him. “I’m going to take you apart. That’s what you're  _for._ You don’t belong on the field—anyone can jump high and run fast—you belong in a lab cage where I can finally take the time to crack your code.”

Steve hadn’t stepped back. His blue eyes looked into the dark ones.  

“And the fact that I’m human?” he said. “That I don’t want any of this?”

Tony grinned dangerously. “Just an added bonus.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “For me and for you.”

Steve felt a jolt of heat and clenched his fists. He took a deep breath, then said, very quietly, “Tony.”

“What?” Tony asked when he didn’t add anything.

“We’re not in the lab right now,” Steve said.

And he _whacked_ him across the face with his shield.

Tony crashed hard onto the floor but reacted almost instantly, repulsors flaring to boost him back up—Steve had seen it coming and lunged at him so he wouldn’t get airborne, slamming him right back down onto the concrete. He dug his gloved fingers into the joints of the right wrist and ripped off the first repulsor, smashed the second one with his shield, then spun Tony on his back and forced his fingers _into_ the chest-plate—around the ARC reactor pulsing with blue life.

The metal whined under his grip; Tony’s struggles brutally stopped. His face was ashen and his eyes very wide.

“Who’s so damn arrogant their weakest spot _glows in the dark?”_ Steve panted.

He grabbed Tony’s jaw with his other hand, both to make him look at him and to keep the face-plate from closing. “I may be a science project,” he growled, “but I’m one that fights _back_. And like you said, you _haven’t_ cracked my code yet. You have no idea what I’m really capable of. I could have killed you so many times. I could kill you _now.”_

He tightened his grip. “You think you can take what you want, just because I’m the only one who knows what you really are,” he said, “but maybe letting me see was the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”

Tony’s mouth was moving haphazardly, but no words were coming out of it. He looked in utter shock, as if Steve touching his reactor had provoked some kind of shutdown. Steve’s instinct—his damn instinct—made him release his grip just a little, so he could breathe.

 _“Expand,”_ Tony spat out in a hoarse gasp.

All of a sudden, a pain unlike anything Steve had ever known _shredded him_ from the inside—for a second he thought a girder had burst through the roof and clean through him. He opened his mouth wide but didn’t manage to scream.

Tony brought his leg up in a painful whirr and pushed Steve off him with his boot. Steve rolled on the roof, all his muscles cramping with agony; but he looked up at Tony with nothing but fury in his mind, shaking with it. Pain was a mistake. Pain had never scared him.

He gritted his teeth and got up—to Tony’s evident astonishment, and then delight.

“Well now,” he said, eyes alight with awe, “Rogers, look at you.”

Then he grinned and said again, _“Expand.”_

This time, Steve’s scream almost burst past his lips when something heaved and _swelled_ inside of him. He fell back down on his knees, breathless, and stared at Tony with murderous eyes; Tony stared back, eyes dark and mocking.

A gust of wind blew across the roof and Steve realized he hadn’t even heard the medics’ helicopter arrive. Barton was on board and jumped out before it even landed.

 _“Decrease,”_ Tony murmured, a little smile still on his lips—and Steve’s suffering was gone before Barton even reached them. He slumped forward, panting.

“Cap,” the archer called out. “Everything okay?”

“He’ll be fine,” Tony said.

He grabbed Steve's hand and hauled him back up. Steve didn’t look at him, but his tattoos were _throbbing._

"I'm okay," he heard himself utter. He always said that after a battle, no matter how obviously injured he was; and so Barton believed him.

 

*

 

Back to Stark Tower, Steve excused himself as soon as the debrief was over and made a beeline for his floor. When the elevator doors opened on his apartments, he walked straight to the bathroom, shedding his uniform on the way. The cuts and bruises of the battle had already healed, but the tentacular pain he’d felt on the roof still echoed inside him.

He walked into the ridiculously large shower and turned on the water. He waited a minute under the warm stream, trying to enjoy this small reprieve; then he crouched down and squatted.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then pushed two fingers inside himself.

At first, he felt nothing unexpected. Gritting his teeth, he went deeper, spreading his legs and arching his back, pumping his fingers in and out while his body accommodated to the stretch before pushing them all the way in.

And then he did find something.

It was _under_ the flesh, a tube outlining his insides but—underneath. Steve could feel a rigid, alveolar structure, like wire netting grafted inside him. It was going further up than he could reach. Before he could react in any way to what he'd found, the thing _moved—_ expanded inside him, but not like earlier; only by a tiny fraction, stretching him more. Steve’s gasp echoed in the steamy room; he pulled his fingers out, eyes wide.

“Figured it out yet?” Tony asked from outside the stall.

Steve did _not_ jump, but it was a close call. It hit him with full force then, just how omnipotent Tony was in his own tower—everything automatized; everything at his beck and call. Even the doors.

Steve looked up, but couldn’t see more of Tony than a blurred silhouette through the frosted glass. He sat down under the steady stream of the shower, with his back to the wall. It was probably still warm but he couldn’t feel it at the moment. He could barely feel anything.

He wanted to bark _how fucking crazy can you get?_ but wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

“For how long have you been planning this?” he said instead, in a low voice.

Tony’s laugh told him he’d asked the right question.

“Cap, you really just don’t get it,” he answered like this was all very funny. “This started _way_ before you even came back. I’ve spent my whole _life_ working on you. I’m not the only one—you’ve seen Banner; you know what he did. You have no idea what you mean for the scientific community. You’re like a walking Nobel prize.”

The thing inside Steve stretched him a notch wider; he closed his eyes, trying to breathe slowly. He couldn’t not feel it. It was _inside_ him.

“And I’m the fiercest of all contenders,” Tony went on, “because of my old man and the way he kept saying you were his greatest accomplishment. God, how I wanted to one-up him on this. Get him to shut the fuck up about you, for once. I had tons of ideas to recreate you—to make you better.”

A little laugh. “Trust me, I’ve got a _lot_ of things I want to try.”

A notch wider, relentlessly precise. It expanded every minute or so.

Steve pressed the back of his head against the damp tiles, legs spread, thighs and abs trembling. He’d thought he’d known violation when Tony had spread him for the fucking machine; he’d thought he couldn’t feel more invaded when Tony had strapped him to the surgery table. But _this—_ this—he closed his eyes, wished to God it didn’t arouse him. But no matter the sheer horror Tony’s words awoke in him—or maybe because of it—his body was reacting to its forced compliance.

“And then they _actually_ found you,” Tony said with jubilation in his voice. “And they brought you here. And they made you _live_ here. Hell, they practically wrapped you up in ribbon for me. How was I expected to resist? Rogers,” he sounded hoarse and breathless, “you’re all _mine_ now.”

Steve was afraid, and his fear only made him harder. The tube stretched him some more, a bit more sharply, and a whine escaped his throat before he realized it; he cut himself off, breathless and trembling,

“What you’ve got inside you,” Tony said, still calmly standing outside the stall, “is a prototype of remote-controlled, voice activated body armor. A net of hair-thin polymers that can change size and grow rigid to counter blunt trauma. Romanov and Barton should be implanted soon.”

Steve let out a gasping breath. “Leave them alone,” he said. “Don’t you dare touch them!”

Tony scoffed a laugh. “Theirs will act as actual armor—on the _outside;_ yours was just a cleverly placed first draft. I’m not going to _hurt_ them, Steve. I’m not even going to hurt _you_. I told you; this isn’t about pain. You’re just something to work over. You’re gonna have to accept that.”

A notch wider. Steve flushed with hot humiliation when he realized he couldn’t clench shut anymore. The polymers were stronger than him—Tony knew exactly how strong he was inside; he’d recorded it last time when he’d fucked him open.

 _“The Captain is ready for your use, sir,”_ JARVIS’ voice announced smoothly.

The shower stopped running. Tony was right behind the door, calmly taking off his tie.

“Get up,” he said. “Turn around, put your hands on the wall and spread your legs.”

Steve did it, slowly, jaw clenched. He couldn’t fight, not right now—if he did, Tony would just make the polymers expand to full-size like before, and then the agony wouldn’t even let him stand.

 _How convenient,_ a nasty little voice said in his head, but he pushed it away and almost didn’t flinch when Tony rolled the door open and walked inside the shower. He zipped open his fly, then grabbed Steve’s hips with strong, calloused hands. Steve closed his eyes, felt him nudge at his entrance then breach him—and slide into him in one long hard thrust. Steve’s hands clenched into fists against the tiles, and he bowed his head, more furious and humiliated than ever.

Tony’s breath was hot against his neck. “You’re proud, Rogers,” he said. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

Steve clenched down—he couldn’t help it; he wanted to fight back, to _do_ something, but the polymers held strong and Tony only let out a pleased groan. He had some goddamn nerve—fucking Steve without any other protection against his inhuman strength than this untested invention—but it was _working,_ and it made Steve’s defeat all the more thorough.

“So here's the deal,” Tony said in a low voice, fucking him slowly. “You’re going to come down to the lab when I’ll order you to. You’re going to learn how to be a well-behaved guinea pig. And if you can’t do that, I’ll just tame you.” He gave a hard thrust that made Steve cry out. “It’s a hobby of mine.”

Steve was breathing hard and quivering with horrible, shameful pleasure—a burning lust that fed off its own wrongness. When Tony took his erection in a tight grip and thumbed the head, his knees almost gave out. 

“You’re uncut,” Tony said, like he was only noticing it now. "Maybe we’ll change that.”

Steve had to bite back a sob. Tony was still slowly thrusting into him, rolling his hips in languid waves like he had all the time in the world, lazily stroking him. Steve was acutely conscious of the fact that he wasn’t restrained. His hands were flat on the wall, his legs obediently spread.

He couldn’t just give up. He had to fight back. Tony wasn’t even in his suit, for Christ’s—

“You’re a goddamn open book,” Tony breathed. “Yeah, you _could_ just decide to snap my neck right now.”

Steve froze.

“But hey, remember that lovely video we made of you last time?” Tony said. “I sold it to a few interested parties already, by the way—you wouldn’t _believe_ how much they paid for it.”

Steve’s brain went blank for a second. That—no. That was a lie.

God, it _had_ to be a lie.

“If anything was to happen to me,” Tony said, “JARVIS will broadcast it everywhere. And I do mean everywhere.” He fisted Steve’s hair, jerked his head back. “How about that, Rogers? Can you say _checkmate?”_

Steve wanted to answer something, but no words came to mind.

He arched when Tony pulled harder at his hair, panted in his grip, thinking desperately but losing his ability to think, too, what with how hopelessly aroused he was. He was held open for Tony, taken by Tony, and it was like a live demonstration of everything he'd told him, a materialization of Steve’s helplessness.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten our bet,” Tony said. “That was my _double,_ Rogers. And you’ve got _nothing_. Ah,” he moaned, suddenly pushing his forehead against Steve’s shoulder, “— _aah,_ God, ffffuck, fuck, _yes—”_

He thrust deeper than ever before and didn’t pull back—held himself in while he ejaculated, gripping Steve’s hips; and Steve scrambled at the wall and choked and couldn’t hold back anymore—he began to come, stutteringly at first, and then pulsing and pulsing like he’d never stop, legs giving out under him until he was on his knees and shaking with ugly pleasure.

He let himself rest there, vaguely realizing that Tony had pulled out while he'd slid down, leaving him empty and still held open by the tube. He could feel warm come drip out of him.

 _“Decrease,”_ Tony said, and the polymers shrank down to their natural size.

Steve leaned forward to press his forehead against the tiles, shivering all over.

He heard Tony zipping himself up, then a rapid metallic whirr like he’d pulled a wire out of the wall. When something was nudged into him again, Steve flinched and screwed his eyes shut, curling up even more without thinking.

“It’ll just take a minute,” Tony said, rubbing his neck. “Gotta clean you up.”

He turned a knob and water trickled down _into_ Steve, slowly filling him up. He willed himself to take it, willed himself not to react to this new humiliation.

The flow stopped. “Hold it in.”

Steve held it in; it hurt and it weighed down but he held it in. And when Tony told him to let go, he released it into the drain, burning tears of shame spilling out of his eyes. He felt exhausted. He just wanted to sleep now.

Then the water was turned on again, and this time it was _ice cold_ and Steve couldn’t help gasping even though he tried to swallow it down, because the cold—goddammit, of course Tony knew what the cold did to him. His throat was closing up, and it hurt, it _burned,_ and Tony filled Steve up and _up_ until he felt like he was bursting with ice.

He was made to hold it in for what seemed like an eternity. He was crying with it long before it was over, but he did it anyway, shaking, hating himself and his own despondency; and when Tony finally allowed him his release, he felt like it was his life force—like it was the very fight that spilled out of him.

 

*

 

Tony made the polymers decrease to their minimal size and told Steve that from now on he couldn’t use the toilet without asking first.

Tony dressed him, picked clothes out of his closet and watched him while Steve slowly put them on.

Tony made him sit on the bed and turn his head to the side; he took the contraption he’d brought with him and stapled a third tattoo behind Steve's ear. He kissed the burning spot, then ordered him to shave the hair there every day, saying he’d check.

Then Tony told him there was no need to make this difficult.

“There’s no need to make this difficult,” he said, crouching in front of him with his hands on Steve’s thighs. “Nothing’s gonna change.”

Still sitting on the bed, Steve just looked blankly at him.

“I won’t even challenge you on the field—well. No more than usual,” Tony said with a smile in the corner of his mouth. “You’re a decent leader, Rogers. And I don’t _want_ to hurt you. We can make this work just fine.”

Tony didn’t say that he’d make the polymers tear Steve from the inside if he was ever to rebel; but then again, it needn’t be said out loud.

And Steve, sitting there, with Tony’s too warm hands on his thighs, thoroughly clean, awfully cold, listening, with the three little black drops burning into his skull, Steve thought numbly:

_I have to kill him._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is just peachy.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting! :D


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

“Captain?”

Steve looked up and realized he was in a SHIELD meeting. Right. He was still Captain America. No one knew. No one could have imagined.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

He got up, left the controls room and leaned against the wall for a second, closing his eyes. The steel was buzzing steadily against his back, relaying the rumble of the Helicarrier’s new Stark reactors.

Steve ran both hands through his hair. Then he took his phone out and texted, _Can I use the bathroom?_

He felt like he was waiting forever for the answer, looking at the blank space under his own message.

Then suddenly, it was there. _Sure, Capsicle._

The polymers inside Steve loosened. He straightened up and headed to the men’s room. They fed off his own strength, he’d learned—used his kinetic energy to recharge and reinforce themselves. It was Natasha who’d told him that, while they were sparring.

Steve remembered only too well. It was five days after the shower episode. They’d been fighting for half an hour and Natasha was beginning to work up a good sweat. When Steve jabbed at her, she blocked instead of dodging and yelled:

_“Expand!”_

Steve had backed off so fast he’d nearly stumbled down, eyes wide.

She’d blinked at him, understandably baffled by his reaction. Steve had stared back, panting, gaping at her, then looked down. There was a hive-like netting flaring under her skin, like bone pushing to break through.

“What, uh,” he'd swallowed, struggling to get it together, pretend everything was normal. “What’s that?”

She’d looked her arm, then back up at him.

“Body armor,” she’d said, brow still furrowed. “I guess it does look creepy.”

“A little,” he’d panted. “Mostly, uh, unexpected. And—it’s under your—you let T—isn’t it a bit… invasive?”

“It is,” she said with a small shrug. “But it’s worth it. It’s stealthy, weightless, virtually undetectable, I always have it with me, and it activates automatically when I get hit. Stark had been talking about it for a while, but only managed to develop it recently.”

 _I know,_ Steve thought, _I have the prototype up my ass,_ and he wanted to laugh hysterically.

“Looks pretty damn useful,” was all he said.

The same night, he’d gone to Tony and asked him to remove Natasha’s netting. It was the closest he’d come to actually begging him. But Tony had just rolled his eyes at him.

“Steve,” he’d said, “for the love of God, it’s _armor._ It’s _saving her life.”_ A little grin. “And unlike yours, it’s coded to her own voice print. Don’t sweat it.”

Steve hadn’t asked again.

But the very next day on the field, he’d seen the hive-like pattern flare on Barton’s arms, too—when taking a blow that should have left the archer with broken bones. Barton came out of it with nothing but nasty bruises and a big smug grin.

Steve knew he should have been glad, but he'd only felt very cold.

He shook his head, chasing the memories away. He had a meeting to attend—Fury was probably wondering what he was doing.

He hadn’t used the toilet, but flushed it anyway and washed his hands before going back to the control room. When he sat down to resume the conversation, the polymers had already shrunk again—Tony never left him more than ten minutes at a time.

 

*

               

Steve had to kill Tony. There was no other way.

The thing was, Tony was getting a kick out of degrading his father’s legacy, like a vengeful heir selling the family lands at loss. Tormenting Steve was a way for him to further his own accomplishments and undermine Howard’s at the same time. He was inventing amazing things, things that would surely make the world a better place, things to protect and heal and soothe people; but he always found a way for the experiments to be as humiliating and invasive as possible for Steve. In the end, Tony Stark was just an angry, bitter child.

Steve knew this, and knew that it meant killing Tony was his only hope. He couldn’t possibly reason with him. The more he protested, the more Tony got off on it; he wanted more things to break, more noises to silence, more perfection to _soil._

A month ago, Steve’s enhanced body had never even sweated. Now, his fatigue felt like it had settled into his spinal cord, like it grew inside his marrow and stayed embedded in his bones. He woke up feeling drained, went through the day in a haze, and sleep brought him no relief. His body was pushed to its very limits on a regular basis, and consumed its own energy even faster in its efforts to recuperate. Steve’s own strength was bringing him to his knees.

He was certain Tony would have let him rest if he’d asked. But the one thing he’d never done was beg, and he wasn’t going to start now.

To endure was what he did best, after all.

 

*

 

Ten days in, he snapped.

It happened out of the blue, really. Steve’s days actually weren’t _that_ different. In the morning, he went for a run, going even faster than before, running like he knew where he was going. Then he went home, showered, dressed and ate breakfast, and went on with his planning for the day.

A few things _had_ changed.

Steve wasn’t bidding good morning to JARVIS when he entered the elevator. In the shower, Steve was cleaning the inside of himself as well as the outside—not that he felt much cleaner for it. Steve was shaving the patch of hair over his tattoos, every morning, quickly and trying to think about something else, like ripping off a bandaid. Steve was dressing with the clothes Tony gave him, tighter and sharper than what he’d wear, and earned himself lots of appreciative glances for it. Steve was also eating what Tony wanted him to eat. Sometimes it was nothing at all, depending on the afternoon’s program.

Tony was graciously allowing Steve to keep sparring with Natasha on a regular basis, and let him, of course, attend SHIELD meetings and the like—what he called _Avengers stuff_. But the afternoon was always to be spent in the lab.

True to his word, Tony treated him like a guinea pig. He talked to him, sure; but then again, he also talked to his bots, to his computer, to his drill and wrench and hammer and once to a crumb on the floor. He gave Steve nonchalant directions and sometimes didn’t even bother giving them; just nudged Steve into position and expected him to comply. He took almost two liters of blood from him on one dreary afternoon and didn’t even talk to him that day, muttering equations under his breath and grumbling at his bots while Steve emptied himself in a plastic tube, gripping the arm rests of the chair he was sitting in, willing himself to hold on and say nothing even though he was going dizzy and cold by the end of it.

One day, after a whole afternoon in the lab among Tony’s ghostly holograms, Steve muttered, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Yeah?” Tony replied absently, staring at his calculations. “Just say the magic words, Cap.”

Steve sent his desk _flying_ and pounced on him before he’d even realized what he was doing.

The thought of the video briefly crossed his head, then vanished— _screw it._ He wouldn’t stand another minute of this—he wouldn’t be humiliated like this for a second longer. He grabbed Tony at the collar, gagged him with his hand so he couldn’t yell _expand_ and slammed him against the wall and—and—

—nothing.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t kill him. Not like this. This was murder. This was taking another life in cold blood. This was _wrong._ He just couldn’t do it.

Tony’s eyes were very wide; but when he realized what was happening, he grinned under Steve’s hand. Steve was trembling, eyes wide, breathless. When Tony pushed him back, Steve went, as easily as if he was still his old skinny, beaten-up self.

“Well,” Tony said under his breath, with dark laughter in his voice. “I think that was an important milestone for the both of us.”

Steve turned away, pressing his palms against his eyes with a silent scowl.

“I’m curious, though,” Tony said, “what was your plan? Did you even have one? Were you gonna hide my body somewhere, make it look like an accident? Or were you just going to confess?”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbled. “For the love of God, shut up.”

“Go use the toilet,” Tony said. “Then come back here and strip down.”

Steve screwed his eyes shut. “No.”

“Captain,” Tony said in that implacably cold voice he only used when his mask slipped. “You will do as I fucking say.”

He didn’t need to say more. He didn’t need threats. Steve already knew, was already trapped, and Tony just had to wait for him to resign himself to that fact.

 

*

 

The punishment was thorough, just like everything else Tony did.

Steve came out of the bathroom already naked—at least he could spare himself the humiliation of stripping for Tony’s enjoyment. When he looked up, the robotic structure which had held him the first time round came out of the wall—this time, Steve saw it; it was a nightmare of mechanical arms that grabbed him at the wrists and ankles and held him standing up and spread-eagled.

“Your little breakdown was right on time, I gotta say,” Tony said from behind him. “Do you know what a viral agent is?”

Steve stared straight ahead. “Yes.”

And then he added, because he really never knew when to back off, “It won’t work on me.”

“Oh, they don’t work on anyone, really,” Tony said negligently. “They’re just too unpredictable. Which is a damn shame since they could be used for so much good—to deliver cures right into pre-targeted cells, and heal autoimmune diseases, among other things. Don’t get me wrong, people are trying, they might even succeed one day—but biochemistry is _such_ a fickle thing. I mean, just ask Banner.”

Steve closed his eyes and exhaled.

“So I thought of mechanizing them. Getting rid of the whole _bio_ aspect. Don’t know if you get the picture, people rarely do, but it’s pretty damn brilliant. I call it the nanofleet—and I believe we’re just about ready for field testing, so to speak.”

He walked around Steve to get in front of him. Steve forced himself to open his eyes, to look.

Tony was holding a syringe filled with a silver liquid. “If they can beat your immune system,” he said, “they’ll beat any immune system. Turn your head.”

Steve expected the pinch of the syringe and willed himself not to react when Tony injected him in the neck. He imagined he could feel an oily, nasty warmth spreading inside him, attacking him from the inside. He focused on breathing deeply, regularly.

“Relax,” Tony told him. “This is a test run, so they’re not carrying anything serious.”

He stepped back and called out, “JARVIS, will you stake up our dear Captain? Configuration six.”

The polymers obligingly opened Steve up for the steel rod that came out of the floor and slid up and _up_ into him until he had to stand on his tip-toes not to be seriously hurt—if he relaxed and let himself weigh down, the sensation was almost unbearable with how _deep_ it went into him. He pulled against the manacles and took a deep breath.

“JARVIS, gag him, too,” Tony said negligently over his shoulder as he made his way back to his computer, “he’s gonna get noisy.”

 

*

 

Five hours later, Steve wished Tony had just killed him.

He was drooling into the muzzle, all the muscles in his body cramping and twisting, still on his tip-toes. He felt so hot it was like drowning into himself. Drops of sweat were rolling down his chest and back and thighs. He’d never been so hard, so purple and _engorged_ and throbbing with it. He was moaning—he couldn’t help it; he just couldn’t stay quiet anymore, he was _whimpering,_ obscene needy little noises muffled by the strap of Kevlar over his mouth.

And he was rocking his hips to fuck himself on the rod stuck up his ass. It nearly killed him where he stood with shame, but he couldn’t not do it—he couldn’t control himself anymore, even though each jolt of sensation was torture.

But the thing was just too straight and too long to stimulate him in the way he needed; it wasn’t fucking him as much as impaling him, keeping him in place. Steve was _just_ on the edge of climaxing but the relief wouldn’t come. He was going insane with it, head constantly jerking to the side, body shaking with spasms and glistening with sweat; he struggled to keep himself up; but kept sagging in the manacles, driving the rod even further into him.

He heard joints popping; Tony was stretching and groaning in satisfaction after a long day.

“So,” he called across the lab, “how’s it going over there?”

He walked in front of Steve again, his grin mocking but his eyes dark with lust at the sight of Steve’s ruined state.

“Spoiler alert,” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. “The nanofleet was carrying synthetic testosterone. That is, the most potent aphrodisiac known to man. But maybe you’d figured that out yourself?”

He looked Steve up and down. “Looks like they hit home. Unless being shackled standing up just happened to be your ultimate fantasy.”

Steve could barely hear him. Sweat and tears were trickling down his face. _Please,_ he was thinking, and he was deliriously grateful for the muzzle which kept him from saying it out loud. _Please, please._ He distantly realized he was straining with all his strength against the manacles—if he could just free one hand, if he could just _touch_ himself, he’d come and it’d be over—it’d be—

Tony grabbed the chin strap of the Kevlar muzzle and tugged hard to make Steve look at him.

“Rogers,” he said very quietly, but his eyes were wide and his pupils dilated. “You will _never_ lay a hand on me again.”

Steve closed his eyes, chest heaving. Tony twisted his nipple _hard,_ making him flinch bodily.

“Do you understand?” he asked calmly.

Steve nodded, once, shaking and feeling tears seep past his closed eyelids and roll down his cheeks. He knew that if he hadn’t already been aroused beyond reason, he would have gotten hard. Defeat did that to him.

“Good,” Tony murmured.

He took a step back.

“Thanks to your participation, I just concretized a big project today, so here’s my offer,” he said. “You can come—but like this or not at all. And if you don’t manage it in the—” he checked his watch, “—next five minutes, I’m leaving you here for the night.”

Steve’s eyes snapped open. _No, God, please, no._

He could barely think, barely move, but he still threw the last of his strength into rolling his hips again, trying to move himself up and down the rod, feeling his abs ripple and strain with the effort.

Tony was looking at him all the while. Steve hated being ignored—being left to suffer while Tony worked on something else—but being stared at was worse. Tony didn’t relent, and kept his full attention on Steve while he rutted and strained and panted like an animal.

Steve tried his best, gave it his all, but he just couldn’t bring himself over the edge. Five minutes later, Tony grinned at him. “Looks like you’re in for an all-nighter, Cap. _Ciao.”_

He turned away and the lights went off as he left. Steve slumped in his restraints and wished he could pass out.

 

*

 

He dreamed of Bucky.

It was more of a hallucination, really. Bucky was there, in the lab, like he was just before his fall with his navy blue coat, a few snowflakes caught in his messy hair. He smiled like Steve remembered, both fond and cocky.

“C’mon, Stevie.” His gloved fingers brushed Steve’s cheek, and Steve almost thought he could feel it; and it made him cry bitterly just when he thought he didn’t have any tears left.

“Get back up. You had ‘im on the ropes.”

Steve wanted to say something and wanted to reach out—but he was muzzled, staked, and Bucky wasn’t there.

 

*

 

“Rise and shine, Captain.”

The sudden light was so physically painful to Steve that he hid his face into his shoulder. He heard Tony give a few orders and soon, the rod was seamlessly retracting into the floor, leaving Steve empty and burning. His whole body was ravaged with frustration; when the shackles opened, he almost fell down.

“Let me get you some ice for that,” Tony said when he saw Steve was still half-hard.

 

*

 

Tony draped a towel over Steve’s shoulders and gave him a cup of hot coffee, then sat in front of him on the floor. “Testosterone’s a bitch, I know. Your All-American metabolism flushed most of it out during the night, though. Guess it’s been a bit tough on you,” he said, smiling, “but hey, the nanofleet’s a success. Just gotta figure out a way to mass-produce it, and we can kiss cancer goodbye.”

Steve said nothing and drank his coffee. The corners of his mouth were still sore from the muzzle, but the pain was rapidly vanishing. The rest of his body was already erasing the marks of his punishment, too. As if nothing had happened.

There was a moment of stillness as he stared into his cup and thought, from what felt like a great distance, _Is this my life now?_

 

*

 

Steve’s phone buzzed inside his pocket; he took it out and read, _I’m bored_

He looked up at Tony across the table. The room was darkened; Fury was presenting his battle plan for the next day to get rid of the Chitauri survivors for good. Natasha listened with calm professionalism. So did Barton, although his feet were crossed on the edge of the table. Steve was sitting up very straight in his chair. And Tony, apparently, was bored.

 _Penny for your thoughts?_ the next text read.

Steve ignored it and pointedly looked at the screen, which displayed the targeted areas they’d have to cover.

_Come ooooon, Rogers_

Steve saw Tony roll his eyes and sag dramatically in his chair. Hill was raising an eyebrow at his texting, but knew better than to call him out on it.

_All spangles and no fun_

Steve worked his jaw and realized he wasn’t concentrating at all. He mentally shook himself. If they could put an end to this ridiculous guerrilla war, perhaps things could finally begin to look up for their public image.

  _< stark_command> says *expand 10%_

The polymers sharply stretched Steve who suddenly sat much straighter than a second ago. He glared at Tony, who gave him a big, shit-eating grin and texted him again.

_That’s more like it, you were slumping something awful_

Natasha was in the room. And Barton. And Fury. Steve couldn’t let anything show. He stared at the screen, forcing himself to listen to Fury’s explanations.

His phone buzzed again. _< stark_command> says *expand 20%_

Steve gritted his teeth, then grabbed his phone and texted back, _CUT IT OUT_

 _He lives!_ Tony’s next text read.

Then the next: _< stark_command> says *expand 30%_

This time, Steve felt a jolt of pain and once again, realized that he couldn’t clench shut anymore. He felt himself heat up with humiliation and thanked God for the darkness in the room.

Then he felt something else, and briefly screwed his eyes shut.

_Oooh, I know that face! You’re hard_

Steve’s fingers trembled a little when he texted back. _Tony, stop it._

_Wait wait, I have new features to try out anyway_

_Check out this one_

_< stark_command> says *wave_

Steve carefully did _not_ react when the polymers, instead of expanding or shrinking, _undulated_  up and down inside him in one long languid stroke. It felt—Jesus, it felt like something was fucking him.

_If I can get them to do whatever I want, I’m totally building my next suit out of them_

Steve took a deep breath and texted his reply. _Good idea. Now leave me be._

Tony’s answer was immediate and gleeful.

_Nah, there’s no reason not to let you come this time_

_I’m not a monster_

_< stark_command> says *wave/x65_

Steve grabbed the edge of the table with such strength that he dented it. The stroke from the inside was happening again, and again, and again, and it wasn’t _exactly_ like getting fucked since there was no weight, no blunt object pressing into him, but the polymers rolled against his prostate in long pulsing waves and Steve could only wrap his ankles around the legs of the chair to keep himself from buckling down.

When he looked at his phone again, a new text had appeared.

_Touch yourself_

Steve ignored it and looked straight ahead, but the waves were relentless and it took all his willpower not to moan out loud. His phone buzzed again.

_< stark_command> says *expand 40%_

_Touch yourself_

Steve bit his tongue not to cry out when the polymers mercilessly stretched him. He couldn’t believe no one realized what was happening. Fury was still talking, Natasha and Clint and Hill still listening. With a huge effort of concentration, Steve watched the presentation and realized the meeting was almost over and the lights would get turned back on soon. 

His phone buzzed again. _We can do this, Rogers, you and me. We can make this happen. We have the technology_

Steve wasn’t looking at Tony, but he couldn’t keep from reading the texts appearing on his screen.

_< stark_command> says *expand 50%_

He tensed against the searing pain inside, breathing fast.

_Touch yourself, Steve_

Steve gripped his crotch under the table and kneaded himself through his uniform, eyes fluttering shut. His phone buzzed again, but he didn’t need to read the text to know what Tony’s command had been—the waves grew faster and harder inside him, the polymers pulsing like a beating heart in long rolls of pressure. It felt so awfully good that Steve forgot everything else for a second and rubbed himself through the fabric, harsh and rough, and in less than a minute he was coming, painting his boxers with warm, sticky come.

When he reopened his eyes, he was so certain everyone would be staring at him that for a second there, he was convinced they were all faking when he found them still uninterested in him.

Fury turned the lights on, making them all blink.

“Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Barton said, “in a fight between a falcon and a hawk, who would win? Just asking for a friend.”

“The falcon,” Fury said mercilessly. “Any _other_ questions?”

Steve was still hot and pulsing inside and half in shock. His phone buzzed again; this time, he looked at the screen.

_Houston, do we have a take-off?_

Steve could barely text.

_Go to hell_

He knew Tony was smiling across the room. _That’s a strong yes. Meet me in the men’s room in five, I want to check_

*

 

“Steve,” Natasha asked him. “Are you okay?”

Steve looked up from—nothing, really. He’d been staring blankly at the wall.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“You don’t look fine,” Natasha said. Then she smiled a little at his outfit. “Not in the literal sense, of course.”

Steve managed a smile. Tony had made him wear a tight black t-shirt and tailored, navy blue battle pants today. “That’s always something,” he said.

“Look,” Natasha began.

She made a little helpless gesture. “I suck at this, Steve. Nobody has any idea what you’re going through.”

For a wild second, Steve thought that she knew; but the next moment he understood she referred to his general situation.

“But…” She shrugged. “We’re a team. We’re _your_ team. We’re here.”

Steve smiled again, more sincerely this time. “I’ll try to remember that.”

 _Tell her,_ he thought. _For Christ’s sake, just tell her._

“Seriously,” Natasha said, the corner of her lips curling up, “even Stark’s worried about you. And that’s saying something.”

Steve carefully kept smiling.

“Thank you,” he said. “Really.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...someone help Steve Rogers


	5. Chapter 5

               

 

 

 

 

 

“Alright, people,” Fury said, pacing the room with long brisk strides which caused the SHIELD agents’ heads to swivel like they were watching a tennis match. “Thanks to Stark’s recent progress in adaptive nanotechnology, we’ve finally managed to infiltrate the Chitauri’s biocoms.”

“Wow,” Barton drawled under his breath, “how much didja pay him to say that, Tin Man?”

“Fuck you, I found a cure for cancer,” Tony grinned.

“Can your ego power your suits yet, or are you still slightly too modest?”

“Gentlemen,” Steve said quietly. “Focus.”

They both shut up, and Steve would have felt a bit comforted by this shred of normalcy—if Tony’s arm hadn’t been casually thrown over the back of Steve’s chair. His knee was nudging his thigh, too, and he was holding his phone pointed towards Steve like it was his remote control.

Which it was.

Steve took a deep breath.

“All evidence points to a main nest underneath Bedford-Stuyvesant,” Fury said.

Steve blinked a little, feeling like a fog in his mind was clearing up for the first time in weeks. _Brooklyn?_ The Chitauri’s nest was in Brooklyn? How had he missed that during Fury’s Avengers-only briefing three days before?

_Touch yourself._

He closed his eyes for a second. He knew exactly why he’d missed that.

He reopened his eyes and looked at the map. It was a satellite view, but the pattern of the streets was still familiar enough to tug at his heart with longing. For a split second, he desperately wished he was still there, desperately wished everything since the ice had been nothing but an absurdly elaborate nightmare; and the pain of his loss was so acute that for a second, he couldn’t breathe at all.

Then it passed, and he went back to feeling numb.

“You alright, Rogers?” Tony said right in his ear.

Steve tried to tune him out.

“We evacuated the area already. Let me remind you that we’re aiming for minimal collateral damage here,” Fury growled. “The Avengers’ public image remains unstable at best and we need a strong, clean win.”

He turned back to the map. “The SHIELD teams will move in first, targeting the scattered pockets on the outskirts of the area; when the Chitauri begin to fall back, the Avengers will come in and destroy the main objective. Dismissed.”

 

*

 

“This is it, Cap,” Tony said, practically bouncing as they walked up the corridor. “After today, no more red alerts. _God,_ I can’t wait.”

The Avengers each had their own changing room on the Helicarrier, with their suit and weapons always ready for use. Instead of turning left to go to his own, Tony followed Steve into the Captain America room and leaned against the wall.

Steve didn’t protest. He didn’t have it in him anymore. If Tony watched him change, what difference did it make?

He couldn’t help noticing, though, as he took off his clothes, that Tony didn’t look pleased. His mood just seemed to darken as his eyes trailed over Steve’s body, still perfect despite Tony’s repeated attempts at degrading it.

Steve had come to realize that any evidence of his enhancements made Tony deeply and irrationally furious. It _had_ been the starting point of all this madness— _sweat._ Tony had said so himself. _You don’t sweat. You never do. It drives me fucking crazy._

Truth was, Tony _loathed_ him—and he loathed him _because he was there._ On the best days, he managed to cover it up; but lately he’d been losing his patience more and more in the face of Steve’s continued existence. He was getting more brutal. More urgent. He wanted to crush him down like Steve himself was a personal offense to him.

Steve knew it was stupid of him to realize this so belatedly; but even now, he still had trouble wrapping his mind around the thought of someone hating him so _intensely_ for something he had no control over. And yet, it was undeniable: Tony didn’t just want to hurt him. He wanted to _destroy_ him. Or rather, he wanted to destroy Captain America and didn’t give a shit what happened to Steve Rogers in the process.

Steve slightly turned away from him as he zipped up his uniform, trying not to draw attention to—any part of himself, really; but it was no use. Tony was too riled up already, dark eyes narrowed into slits, even though Steve had done virtually nothing. In a second, he’d find an excuse to get angry at him.

He suddenly put his fingers on Steve’s jaw and made him turn his head.

Steve went very still, staring at the wall, trying not to do anything that would piss him off more. But his heart nearly stopped when Tony’s thumb rubbed the tattoos behind his ear.

“You didn’t shave,” Tony said in an icy voice.

“I didn’t have time,” Steve answered dully. “I was up all night.”

Tony sneered at him. “Seriously, Rogers. You can’t even follow one simple rule?”

Steve knew it meant stringent punishment for later, but couldn’t even feel dread at the thought. Only a vague, misplaced longing— _longing,_ because nowadays he only ever felt something when Tony _made_ him. The rest was only numbness.

Tony huffed through his nose. “Jesus, I can’t wait for this farce to end.”

It was such a weird thing to say that Steve looked up at him—he only very rarely looked Tony in the eye these days.

“What?”

Tony smiled back, all teeth. “When this whole Chitauri nonsense is over,” he said, “things will go back to normal. Barton has an undercover mission in Europe waiting for him, from what he’s told me; and everyone wants a piece of Romanov—the CIA, the MI6, SWORD, literally everyone. It’s like she’s the only good agent out there or something. Hell, maybe she is. Anyway, she’s gonna have a busy year.”

He tilted his head to the side. “I’ll have you all to myself, Rogers.”

Steve repressed his rising nausea and tried to speak calmly. “No, you won’t. I’ll be sent on long assignments, too.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Ugh, yeah, I know you signed up to be SHIELD’s lapdog,” he snorted. “But that won’t be happening.”

“You can’t do anything about it,” Steve said.

Tony laughed out loud. “Fuck, you still haven’t given up, Rogers? You’re _adorable.”_

“You can’t hold me prisoner,” Steve said, talking over him, “people will notice.”

“I certainly can’t hold _Captain America,”_ Tony admitted. “But what about Steve Rogers? No one gives a fuck about Steve Rogers.”

Steve looked at him again. Somehow, the fact that he’d had a similar thought mere minutes ago made his stomach twist to the point of pain.

“What do you mean?” he asked, throat dry.

Tony leaned closer like a bad actor on stage, and whispered:

“I’m releasing the video.”

Steve felt like someone was sucking the air out of his lungs.

“You can’t,” he stammered.

“It’s already scheduled for tomorrow morning, actually,” Tony said. “It’ll be everywhere on the Internet by noon. Oh, come on,” he went on when he saw Steve’s face. “Don’t act so surprised. You heard Fury. We’re nothing without a public image.”

He sighed dreamily. _“Captain America,_ stalwart and wholesome and brave. The embodiment of this nation. The unsullied symbol of patriotism, perfection, and political correctness.” He grinned at Steve. “What do you think will happen when your sextape airs?”

Steve felt ice cold.

“No one likes a scandal, Steve,” Tony murmured. “And you don’t know your own myth enough to get just how _unprecedented_ the backlash will be. You think you’re famous? Just you wait until tomorrow. The whole world will know your face.” He smirked. “And not just your face.”

He took a step closer. “SHIELD won’t want anything to do with you after that—they’re a government agency. And, I mean, you won’t exactly fit the _covert ops_ profile anymore. The whole country will hate you. You won’t be able to go outside—you’ll be forced to stay at home. And guess where you live?”

He flicked the star on Steve’s chest. “So enjoy your last day,” he said. “By this time tomorrow, Captain America will be finished.”

Of course, Steve thought distantly. It was all he wanted. To destroy his father’s legacy so utterly that it could never be pieced back together. He’d just found a quicker way to do it.

Steve finally found his breath. “That video,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his at all, “is the only thing stopping me from killing you.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth curled up. “Is it?”

There was a silence.

Then Tony’s grin widened and he shrugged one shoulder. “That’s okay—I still got all the others.”

Steve stepped closer and found a small, small comfort in the fact that he was still taller than Tony. He waited until he was sure he could control his voice, then said, very low:

“It’s a rape video.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You sure? I distinctly remember you telling me to _bring it on.”_

“It looks like one,” Steve said a little desperately, because he actually didn’t even know anymore—couldn’t remember what he’d felt at the very beginning of this nightmare. “And _you_ recorded it.”

“It’s a calculated risk, I guess,” Tony shrugged.

“But it’ll destroy you, too—that image of benefactor, of philanthropist you’re working so _hard_ on—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I don’t feature in it,” Tony snorted. “JARVIS cut out the last part.”

“They’ll know it’s you. Who else could it be?”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Who else? _Anyone,_ Rogers. HYDRA, AIM, take your pick. Hell, even SHIELD would be more likely. You’re biased because you know something about me the others don’t, but my public persona is straight as an arrow and never even looked at you twice. There’s no connection whatsoever between us, except for that half-assed Avengers gig which started, what? Two months ago? No one will think of me. No one will cast a single look in my direction.”

Steve wanted to scream, to shake him, but there was nothing he could do. Tony had thought of everything. When the video came out—it would be over. People would literally make Steve stay locked up in Stark Tower. Tony could do what he wanted to him—for however long he wanted.

“We don’t have to do this the hard way,” Tony murmured. “Resign from SHIELD, Rogers. Give up already.”

He raised his hand to brush Steve’s cheek. “You’ve already lost.”

But it wasn’t him Steve felt.

He felt other fingers, gloved fingers, icy from the wind and the snow, doing the exact same gesture. _C’mon, Stevie._  

Steve took a step back and stared down at Tony.

“No deal,” he said under his breath.

Then he turned away, pushed open the door and strode up the corridor—not fast enough, though, to miss the way Tony smirked at him.

 

*

 

 _“Avengers,”_ Fury said on the coms, _“now!”_

Steve and Natasha jumped straight out of the Quinjet and into the melee—the SHIELD teams had played their part, making the Chitauri survivors fall back on a single block; it was time to end it. Iron Man and Hawkeye were up there, covering the groundfighters from the sky.

 _“—aah,”_ someone said in Steve’s ear.

“What?” he yelled over the ruckus of the battle. “Repeat!”

 _“Wasn’t me,”_ Barton said.

 _“Or me,”_ Tony said placidly.

But the noise happened again. At first, Steve thought it was an interference, or maybe SHIELD agents patching through; but then it grew louder, grew repetitive, insistent, pleading—and in a sudden stab of ice he realized what it was.

He just threw himself into the fight with renewed energy, gritting his teeth and willing himself not to pay attention. He couldn’t rip out his earpiece—what if someone called for help?

The volume was steadily rising in his ear. He supposed it had been recorded during the nanofleet testing. His own voice suddenly _whined_ into his ear—a very loud, very real whine—and a second later, Steve got shot in the shoulder.

The energy ray made him stumble back several steps, but it wasn’t what made him breathless.

 _“_ _Cap?”_ Barton yelled.

“I’m fine,” Steve gasped, and he was—it just felt like a nasty punch. But the noises were still there in his ear, now loud and invasive, unescapable.  

Filthy sounds, choked sounds, moans of pleasure, dying groans, animal whimpers, all of it repeating and rising and overlapping in an obscene chorus in his ear—it wasn’t just one session anymore but all of them mixed together, all the times Tony had forced his pleasure out of Steve.

Steve just kept fighting, pretended he hadn’t noticed. It was useless. Tony knew.

It wasn’t until the very end of the battle that it began to fade away, the various sounds disappearing one after the other. The last one was a desperate, stuttering whimper which sounded like it had been shaken out of him; it ended in a disheveled, halting sob when the pleasure won out.

And then harsh, ragged breathing. And then silence.

 

*

 

It was a resounding victory.

The scattered, panicked Chitauri had been wiped out so effortlessly it reminded Steve of a genocide rather than a war. He wished they could have just sent them back where they came from, but that option wasn’t on the table—the Chitauri wouldn’t even have let them try. Now they were all dead and Steve could tell Barton wasn’t feeling too happy about it, either. Romanov’s face was just carefully blank as always.

As for Tony, he just winked at Steve as he opened a bottle of champagne. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, but accepted a glass anyway, lips slightly curling up; Barton finally cracked a smile and raised his own glass good-naturedly when Tony made a toast.

“To a new tomorrow,” he said, grinning at Steve.

 

*

 

The Avengers were all sent home to get a few hours of rest before the press conference which was scheduled for the next day at 9 am.

Steve had to admit Tony’s timing was perfect. The video would be released at noon, which meant chaos would rise just before the conference wrapped up—it would happen slowly and then burst all at once, people tweeting, sharing and reblogging the footage of Steve’s humiliation, journalists screaming their questions, the Avengers’s victory suddenly turning sour. All of SHIELD’s efforts ruined in an instant. Fury’s first move would be to hustle Steve away from the cameras, to send him back to the Tower and order him to stay there until further notice.

And it would be over. He’d never get out again.

Sure, Fury would come back to demand an explanation from Steve; Natasha might come, too; but what could Steve tell them that wouldn’t humiliate him more? The video wasn’t fake, after all.

By noon, he would be Tony’s, and there was no way to stop it.

Steve was shaken out of his bleary thoughts when he realized he’d been standing in the elevator for ten minutes and it hadn’t moved.

“JARVIS?” he asked hesitantly. “36th floor, please.”

 _“You do not have access to this area,”_ JARVIS answered smoothly.

Steve screwed his eyes shut, and took a long, shaky breath.

“It’s my floor,” he said.

_“You have been relocated to the sub-workshop area.”_

The elevator suddenly moved, going down instead of up; it passed Tony’s workshop and stopped just underneath. The doors opened on a small, windowless cement room.

There was a bed, without sheets; a shower, without a stall; and a locked toilet seat.

Steve took a few steps in, then stopped. He stayed in a state of numb shock long enough for the elevator to close, and then open again.

“The 36th floor is _so_ overrated,” Tony said from behind him. “Figured you wouldn’t need all that space after tomorrow, anyway.”

Steve could just turn and stare at him.

He couldn’t find anything to say. He suddenly felt like Tony was beyond all human comprehension—he simply couldn’t understand how Tony could be the way he was, and for it not to _show_ in some way.

The despair that seized him then was so cold and so final that Steve almost begged him—almost broke down and _begged_ him. He’d only felt like this once before in his life: after he’d crashed the plane, when he’d watched the icy water rise steadily to engulf him.

But there would have been no point in begging then, and there was no point in begging now.

“Let me give you the tour,” Tony said—then didn’t move from his spot at all, simply nodding at what he described. “The shower has an adaptable head, and I’ll expect you to be clean at all times, obviously. The toilet unlocks twice a day, or whenever I feel like it. And the bed’s a privilege you’ll have to keep earning.”

Steve could only stand there. He looked at Tony; Tony looked back, imperturbable.

“I don’t deserve this,” Steve said after a long minute.

It sounded hollow even to his own ears, the pointless, wan protest of a condemned man.

“Debatable,” Tony answered.

Then he smiled with the corner of his mouth. “And irrelevant.”

 

*

 

After Tony was gone, Steve lay down on the bed—that was really just a bare mattress on a smooth metallic frame—and tried to sleep.

The lights never turned off.

The toilet stayed locked.

 

*

               

Tony came back in the morning, had Steve sit on the bed and shaved the spot behind his ear himself—viciously pulling at Steve’s hair to keep him still. Steve let him, staring into space and listening to the grating buzz of the electrical razor.

When the patch of skin was smooth and pink, Tony unlocked the toilet and let Steve relieve himself, watching him all the while. He also watched him take his shower, opening him up at 10% capacity to make sure Steve could clean himself thoroughly. Then he gave him the clothes he’d brought and watched him put them on, too. He had a little smile when Steve followed him silently into the elevator for what would likely be his last trip up before a long time.

“Don’t look so bleak,” Tony said, still smiling. “I’ll get you some books.”

Steve said nothing.

Barton and Romanov were waiting for them on the roof; the ride in the Quinjet was silent, but light-hearted—Clint was smiling, even Natasha looked happy, and Tony was positively glowing—albeit for an entirely different reason than them. Steve kept quiet.

It was only a few minutes before the Quinjet dropped the four of them in front of the city hall for a press conference in the open air. Steve got out, squinting under the dazzling sun. The crowd of journalists was impressive, but the crowd of civilians was _humongous._ Steve couldn’t remember having ever seen so many people in one place.

Fury knew he didn’t like pre-scripted speeches, but this was a special occasion so Steve found himself reading what felt like pages and pages of things he didn’t understand. He was vaguely relieved, because he was in such a state that he couldn’t have improvised a speech to save his life. His brain could simply not understand the words coming out of his own mouth. When he focused, he managed to catch things like “hard-won battle” and “union as a team” and “hope for the future” but that was it.

He looked up at the sun, at the bright blue sky, and thought about that bare, cold little room in which Tony would keep him.

People began to clap and cheer so loudly Steve snapped out of his daydreaming and realized his own speech was over. It had taken him a long time; the video would air in—less than an hour now. Next to him, Tony stepped forward, ready to speak his piece, all flashing smile and glinting eyes.

“Wait,” Steve blurted into the microphone.

The crowd’s rumbling gradually decreased. To his left, Fury straightened up in alarm.

“There’s something,” Steve stammered, tattoos throbbing on his freshly shaved skin.

He turned to Tony.

And then—as if he’d always planned to say those words, as if he’d been thinking about it ever since Tony had looked him in the eye and said _no connection between us whatsoever, Rogers—_ he said:

“Something we’d promised ourselves we’d do, if we got out of that one alive.”

And he grabbed the lapels of Tony’s jacket, tugged him close and kissed him on the mouth.

The crowd _exploded._

Steve kept kissing Tony for several seconds, tilting his head to fit their lips together so the cameras wouldn’t miss a single detail, but framing Tony’s face with his hands so people couldn’t see his expression. When he finally released him, the sheer noise of the roaring public was still simply too _loud_ for Steve or Tony to say anything—people seemed to have lost their minds, screaming so hard and so wildly the ground seemed to shake. So they just stared at each other, without a word. Tony’s dark eyes were wide and shocked.

It was only a solid ten minutes later, when the crazed crowd finally began to listen to Fury’s exhortations to _calm down_ —he’d been yelling into the microphone; everyone was yelling, everyone still shouting, most of them not even bothering with words—that Steve murmured to Tony, almost still too faintly to be heard:

“How’s _that_ for no connection?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter in a few days. Leave a comment. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The crowd was still howling when Tony and Steve were ushered into the back of the Quinjet by a _seething_ Fury. The light filtering through the windshield usually carried all the way to the back; but today, the pilot’s cabin door was closed, locking the back into near complete darkness which didn’t get any better when Fury slid the door shut behind them with such strength that he almost dismantled the whole aircraft.

“Sit your asses _down,”_ he barked.

They sat down in the passenger seats, and he towered over Steve all the more, like a pillar of black leather and smoldering rage. “Him,” he said, pointing at Tony, “him, I can almost understand. But _you?”_

He was glaring at Steve with ice cold rage and vibrating contempt. “I dared thinking,” he growled, “that you’d take better care of the team Coulson died for. I see now that I was deluding myself.”

Steve was still reeling from what he’d just done and Fury’s accusations felt too much like being beaten when he was already down; so he uttered, “I did nothing wrong.”

“Like _hell,”_ Fury roared, and suddenly he was screaming at him, “Do you think this is about motherfucking gay rights, Rogers? What kind of goddamn cotton candy world do you live in? I couldn’t care less what you do with Stark—as long as you do it _behind closed doors._ Whether you like it or not, America is a bigoted old bitch and you just put us on her _shitlist_ just as things were starting to look up!”

“As much as it hurts me to say it,” Tony said in the quiet tone of the betrayed, “he’s right. And we hadn’t agreed to this, Steve.”

When he heard this, Fury seemed unable to speak for a second. He glared terribly at Steve, then leaned towards him, bracing himself on the arm rests of his chair to trap him there.

“Rogers,” he said in a cold, hard voice. “Let me be absolutely clear. You just strong-armed Stark into outing himself on national television. That alone is _despicable._ But what hurts me the most,” his voice lowered even more, “is that you did it without any regard for the men and women who worked for your team—who _died_ for your team, only to have all their efforts utterly _ruined_ by your selfish, misplaced, _childish_ little egalitarian crusade.”

He straightened up, as if Steve wasn’t even worth his anger anymore. “You proved unworthy of my respect and of my trust. You are removed from the team until further notice.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said wanly.

“Now stay _in_ here,” Fury growled between his teeth, “while I go deal with that fucking mess of things you left us with.”

He slid the door of the Quinjet open; his broad silhouette obliterated the glaring sun for a second, before the door slid shut again behind him and the obscurity came back.

Steve was staring straight ahead, feeling like he’d been struck by lightning.

On his left, Tony snorted. “Did you honestly think that would work?” he said, mockery twisting his voice.

“You won’t be able to release the video,” Steve answered, but it came out feeble and hollow.

Tony laughed out loud. _“Fuck_ the video, you retard. Of course I’m not releasing it. I don’t need it anymore. What you did was ten times better. How _could_ you out me, Steve, how could you betray my trust?” he said in a fake wounded voice—then grinned. “More importantly, how could you make me the victim in this? _Not_ your smartest move.”

Steve was breathless and felt bloodless. There was no use. He couldn’t win.

Tony put a hand on Steve’s thigh. “Thankfully, now that you’re off the team, we’ll have all the time in the world to settle this behind closed doors.  And you,” he whispered, “have really _got_ to learn to know your place.”

His voice was suddenly colder than Fury’s mere minutes ago. “I’m tired of your pointless rebellions, Rogers. I’m tired of your ridiculous hopes and tired of you thinking you’re entitled to anything else than what you were _made_ for.”

He got up in front of Steve and leaned down to speak into his ear. “Do you know what I’m gonna do to you when they send us back home?” he said—and Steve could feel the heat of his breath. “I’m going to fucking castrate you, Rogers. I’m done with that attitude of yours. I’ll strap you with your legs open, cut you with a carbonadium blade, and cauterize you with liquid nitrogen.”

Steve stared at him for a whole, still, silent minute. Then he did a sudden move—

 _“Spike,”_ Tony spat out, and Steve slid off the chair and fell to his knees when the polymers twisted themselves into a blade that _pierced_ him from the inside. He felt warm blood wet his pants and let out a choked breath of pain.

“Okay, this?” Tony said, irritated. “This is _exactly_ what I’m talking about. You just won’t let it _go.”_ He sighed. “Do you want me to kill you, Steve? ‘Cause I can do that, too. I can slice up your wrists and claim you killed yourself out of shame. I’ll even have JARVIS rough out a fake surveillance footage of it. Such a fucking tragic loss. _Spike!”_ he barked again.

Steve screamed, but his scream was interrupted when Tony kicked him across the face. He was otherwise in such agony that the blow was enough to cut off his breath. Next thing he knew, Tony was crouching next to him and holding his head up by his hair.

“Now,” he hissed, “you’re gonna fucking behave. You’re gonna get up and apologize to the crowd outside or whatever it is Fury will make you do; then you’re gonna shut your mouth and take the next Quinjet to Stark Tower. Once we’re there, I’ll neuter you and I’m hoping _that_ will get the message across. And if maybe,” he tugged hard at his hair, “if _maybe_ you’re still alive in six months, you’ll thank me for it. How’s that sound like? Huh?”

“Like Steve’s coms are on,” someone else said.

 

Tony whipped round—and Natasha _slammed_ his face into the wall so hard his brow split open.

 

He crumpled down to the floor, on the edge of Steve’s sight, dark eyes bleary and half-open. Steve let out a gasping breath, but he was in too much pain to speak, curled up around himself with his arms wrapped around his abdomen.

“Steve,” Natasha called, crouching next to him, then hissed, _“shit,”_ when she saw the blood pooling under his body. She raised two fingers to her earpiece. “Barton, medic, _now.”_

Steve felt a faint draught, saw a thin ray of light, and realized she must have broken in through the pilot’s cabin.

“Steve,” she said hurriedly, _“Steve,_ stick around, you’ve got to talk to me.”

“I—,” Steve gasped, half mad with pain. “It’s—” he swallowed hard, clenched his teeth. “Polymers,” he managed. “Got some—got some inside me.”

Natasha hissed something in Russian; then she shuffled closer and said, “Override three forty-one zero one— _decrease!”_

For an awful second, nothing happened; then the piercing pain retracted and vanished, and Steve slumped forward, gasping for breath and shuddering so hard he could barely think. His gut was still pulsing with agony, but he wasn’t being impaled anymore and his healing factor was already at work. But it was draining his last reserves of energy; he stayed curled up on his knees, shaking, barely able to feel Natasha’s hand on his shoulder, until the door behind him slid open and the sun washed in; he heard Clint’s voice, heard Fury’s, and he felt himself slip away.

 

*

 

“Aren’t you better that way?”

Steve was kneeling up and holding very still, with his hands crossed behind his back. His body was very white under the harsh light; he’d lost his tan after months in the windowless cell, and his recent waxing made him look even paler, strangely soft and vulnerable where he used to have hair. His head, which had been shaved entirely as well, was bowed. He was open at 40% capacity, slick and ready. He was not hard, though; he could never get hard anymore.

“Now,” Tony said with dark pride, _“now_ you’re perfect.”

He stepped forward and cupped Steve’s jaw. Steve kept his eyes down, even when Tony’s thumb rubbed against the rough Kevlar strapped over his lips. He gave Steve a little slap, another one, flicked his face and laughed when Steve didn’t react and kept staring obediently at the ground with dull eyes.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “my old man would be _seething.”_

 

Steve opened his eyes and scrambled up, gasping desperately for air, hands fisted into the sheets, drenched in a cold sweat that made his clothes cling to his body—his _clothes,_ he was not naked, he was not shaved, he was not cut, he was—

There was a hand on his shoulder; Steve turned his head and Natasha was there. For a shaking minute, Steve just stared at her; then it all came back rushing in—and the room spun around him so much that he felt her arms wrap around him to keep him upright.

He grabbed her shoulders on instinct, trying to catch his breath, but ended up clinging to her like a child; he felt a pang of shame because he didn’t really know her _that_ well, and she shouldn’t have to bear his weight—but she was holding him tight, solid and _real._ Despite himself, he felt his own fingers dig into the fabric of her shirt, screwed his eyes shut with a violent shudder; and then his shoulders started shaking, his chest started hurting, and he silently began to cry.

 

*

 

It took him several minutes to get a hold of himself; eventually he let go of her, breathing deeply, and she let him pull away.

“Are you in pain?” she asked, and that small kindness brought awful tears to his eyes again.

He shook his head. “No. No, it’s healed.” Another deep breath. “Where is—” _Shit._ He swallowed and tried again. “Where is Stark?”

Even that felt like a defeat, because he hadn’t been able to call him by the name he’d used all this time. But Natasha met his gaze and there was no pity in it.

“He’s with Clint,” she said.

Before Steve could think anything of it, before he could panic or start imagining all the lies Tony could have told them, she casually added, “Everyone seems to think that between the two of us, I’m the best at making people talk. I have no idea why.”

When he understood what she implied, relief washed over Steve so abruptly it made the room sway again. He closed his eyes again and tried his damnedest to breathe normally.

“It’s over, Steve,” Natasha said, and he nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet.

 

*

 

Steve had been sickly and weak for the best part of his life, and he was used to people telling him to get some rest even when he insisted he was fine. But Natasha didn’t make him stay in bed; when he manifested his intention to get up, she simply nodded and told him to join them in the living room when he was ready.

After she left, Steve looked around again and realized he had no idea where he was. It didn’t look like SHIELD’s infirmary and it didn’t look like Stark Tower, either; rather like someone’s apartment in New York. The bed was queen sized with a white and yellow comforter and mismatched pillows. There were pictures of smiling strangers on the nightstand, photos on the wall, an old sweater thrown over a chair. The sun was only setting outside the window, but the red lamp on the desk was already lit.

There were also two big plastic bags at the foot of the bed, with his clothes in it.

Steve got up, and if he still felt a twinge of pain deep inside him, he wasn’t going to acknowledge it. The carpet felt worn under his bare feet. He shuffled to the adjacent bathroom—which was small and ordinary, with half-empty shampoo bottles and weird sponge animals, and did not have an adaptable showerhead—and took off his sweat-damp clothes to take a shower.

The sound of the trickling water echoed loudly in the little room. When he realized he wasn’t being forcibly shut by the polymers, he almost checked to see if they were still there; but he was feeling nauseous again and decided to wait until later.

When he got out with a towel around his hips, he dug into the bags till he found clothes he’d never been made to wear—blue jeans and a plain gray t-shirt. Then, before he could think too much about it, he pushed the door open and got out of the bedroom. He heard voices down the hallway and silently padded forward, barefoot on the wooden floor.

The night had fallen out the windows, and the living room was lit by dim, warm lamplight. Natasha was sitting on a big brown leather couch, and quietly chatting with Clint who was perched on the armrest. On the other side of the coffee table was another couch, smaller and green, on which was sitting an oddly silent Nick Fury; and—Steve was very puzzled to see him—Bruce Banner was on a stool by the kitchen island, with a laptop on his thighs. He looked tired and intensely absorbed by his work, but he looked up from his screen when Steve entered the room. Actually, they all did.

“Hey,” Natasha said.

“Hey, man,” Clint echoed. “Want something to drink?”

They all had big, colorful steaming cups in front of them. The whole room smelled of coffee and jessamine. Steve was petrified for a second, because it was just  _unreal,_ all of them, and this welcoming place, and God, it had to be a dream.

“I thought you were with Stark,” was all he could find to say.

The room stilled for a heartbeat.

Then Clint shrugged. “I was,” he said easily. “It was time for a little break. Hill’s keeping an eye on him.”

Steve briefly glanced at his calloused hands, and saw that his knuckles were raw as if he’d recently punched someone. There was dried blood under his nails, too.

Steve felt dizzy again. They knew. It was over. It was really, _really_ over.

“Do you want to sit down?” Natasha asked.

Steve nodded, swallowing. “Yes. I—coffee… coffee would be nice.”

He sat in an old, comfy chair at the end of the coffee table; a cup was passed from hand to hand until he landed in his lap. He inhaled the strong, dark smell, and exhaled like he was pushing something else than air out of his lungs.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“It’s Hill’s place,” Natasha said. “We took a brief detour by the hospital, but you were already healed by the time we got there. It’s the best we could find in such short notice, since it's too dangerous to approach the Tower with Stark in custody.”

Steve nodded, appreciating her frankness even though he couldn’t stop clutching at the armrest. The Tower was an enemy in itself. “How—” For Christ’s sake. Enough with the stammering. He forced his voice to steady, swallowed, then asked, “How much do you know?”

Clint smiled mirthlessly. “Well,” he said, “we all were on coms. We heard what happened in the Quinjet.”

Steve nodded.

What people tended to forget was this: Tony Stark didn’t _have_ any coms other than his armor which patched him into the system. What people tended to forget was this: Tony Stark was a civilian and, as such, wouldn’t feel the need or the reflex to wear spare coms at all times when in public.

What people tended to remember, and what Tony Stark had forgotten, was this: Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Nick Fury and Maria Hill were _not_ civilians.

Clint snorted a little. “They always do end up monologuing, don’t they?”

 

*

 

Steve had been tortured through the night more than once in the past few months, yet that long strange night in Hill’s apartment felt like the longest of them all. Sure, Clint told him, they had Stark, but he resolutely wasn’t talking and kept asking for a lawyer—and in the absence of solid proof, his legal loophole would get him out in the blink of an eye, “especially after what I did to him.” Steve looked away from the blood under Clint's nails then, so he wouldn't have to face what it made him feel.

Banner’s presence continued to disconcert him, but he didn’t ask anything about it for a long time, because speaking up was something of a physical effort and they all looked decided to give him time. However, he was so afraid of letting himself go numb—of letting Tony win after all—that he ended up asking Natasha.

“We flew him right back from Thailand,” she answered, which explained Banner’s disheveled state and the dark rings under his eyes. “He’s taking care of JARVIS. We won’t be able to hold Stark for very long if his AI isn’t taken down soon.”

Steve just stared at her. He had trouble believing anyone could take on JARVIS with a _laptop_ and a PhD in biochemistry. Sure, Banner was good at what he did, but this was _Tony Stark’s AI,_ for Christ’s sake. During the past months, Steve had learned to fear it as some sort of omnipotent presence that simply could not be escaped; something that was too intricate, too huge and too ingeniously crafted to ever be destroyed.

Not two hours later, Bruce, small and rumpled and apologetic, announced that he was in and excused himself for taking so long.

JARVIS dutifully gave them all the proof they needed to confirm the truth. All the recordings of the sessions were there—Steve was awfully relieved when no one manifested their intention to actually watch them. Among the things Banner dug up were also radios of Steve’s polymers, the analysis of his blood and bone marrow, pages and pages and pages of data about his body, and plans and projects and experiments to come—one of which made Steve escape to the bathroom and throw up as quietly as he could.

When he came back, Clint and Fury were putting on their jackets to go back to Tony.

“Captain,” Fury said quietly. It was the first time he spoke since Steve had woken up. “I would like to apologize about this morning.”

Steve squared his shoulders. “You didn’t know, sir.”

Fury shook his head. “That doesn’t excuse everything I said.” He hesitated for a second, then said, “You are probably braver than any of us will ever be.”

Steve didn't know what to answer, and just nodded in response. It was only after Fury was gone that Steve realized he’d only stayed to tell him this. Nick Fury never stayed in one place for more than a few hours at a time; but he’d waited the entire day to make his apology.

It was now past two in the morning, but Steve did not want to sleep. He was afraid he’d wake up in the cold, bare little room with the locked toilet. If really he was dreaming, then he wanted to keep dreaming and stay here, in this small apartment which smelled like old leather and jessamine.

“Steve?”

He looked up and realized Natasha was talking to him. He hadn’t heard her coming, or calling his name the first time around.

“We’ve got a few questions, if you’re ready. It’s mostly just confirming what JARVIS gave us so we can get the main picture.”

Steve was not ready in any way whatsoever, but this room was quiet and warmly untidy, and it wasn’t the sharp, clean lines of Stark Tower. It was the kind of room Bucky could have been in, leaning against the counter next to Banner’s hunched silhouette, and smiling at him.

So he nodded again.

For how long had this been going on? Almost three months. (Natasha’s features darkened.) Had Stark said anything about his motives? Scientific research. And nothing more? Well, personal grudge, too. Had he threatened Steve before with serious injury and/or death? Yes. Had he threatened Steve’s acquaintances with serious injury and/or death? No, not that. Had he tortured Steve as to make him comply? Yes. (Natasha was silently drumming on her cup.) Had he drugged Steve and performed invasive surgery on him, like the title of one of the videos suggested? Yes. Had he had sexual relations with Steve? Yes, often. (Banner quietly got up and left the room.) Why hadn’t Steve said anything?

Steve wobbled.

“I don’t know,” he said.

He expected her to yell at him, then. But Natasha just nodded quietly and told him she had no more questions for now.

 

*

 

The night went on and on and on. A few hours before dawn, Steve suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe—felt like everyone was waiting for him to say something he couldn’t say; he announced that he was going to sleep and no one tried to hold him back. But instead, after he went back to what was probably Hill’s bedroom, he dug into the plastic bags again until he found his shoes, then left the apartment and almost ran out into the cold night air.

He walked for what felt like hours on end, thankful for the sharpness filling his lungs and for the faint, icy drizzle that told him it wasn’t a dream. Cars were rushing past from time to time, but he scarcely met anyone.

When he got back to Hill’s place, he tried not to make any noise, in case they’d all gone to bed. But he could hear Natasha in the hallway, quietly talking into her phone; and Banner was still there, curled up in a chair with his arms tightly wrapped around himself. When Steve came in, he opened his eyes and looked at him, too polite to pretend Steve hadn't woken him up.

“I hope they didn’t force you to come back,” Steve said, sitting down next to him.

Banner smiled, and it looked both wry and infinitely sad as he tightened his own embrace. “No,” he said. His voice was soft and hoarse at the same time, and he spoke the way Steve remembered, with that odd, self-deprecating undertone. “No, I actually insisted to be here.”

“It’s very kind of you,” Steve ventured, trying not to let his surprise show. “We’d barely met.”

Banner looked even more distressed. “No—please, don’t say that. I can’t accept your gratitude, Captain. I should have warned you.”

Steve opened his mouth to say that Banner couldn’t have known, but he suddenly remembered Tony mentioning him several times during the past months, equating him to an ersatz of Steve—after all, Banner had tried to replicate Erskine and Howard’s work. He suddenly felt very, very cold.

“Is that why you left?" he said under his breath. "Did he do anything to you?”

Banner smiled at him again, a smile that said he couldn’t believe Steve was worried about _him._ Or maybe he knew how infinitely easier it was to worry about someone else right now.

“Well—yes and no. Actually, we got along pretty well. He was straightforward with me, and that meant a lot.” He looked as weary as Steve felt. “But, um, I’ve—I’ve been down that road before, and it taught me to—well, to trust the smallest hunches and run at the smallest signs. And there was something I noticed, after the battle… something that was enough to make me leave.”

He untucked his faded shirt and hiked it up enough for Steve to see his right side, where Tony had playfully poked him on the Helicarrier with what Steve had mistaken for a screwdriver at the time.

There, stuck under a patch of inflamed skin, was a small blot of black ink—not unlike a drop of sweat.

 

*

 

“I could have asked for help,” Steve said in a low voice.

Banner had gone to bed, and Natasha and Steve were alone in the kitchen. The night was ending. Stark had talked.

Out the window, the skies were slowly clearing up into a silvery gray. Steve kept his gaze on his folded hands.

“I could have asked for help so many times. It’s like… it’s like I was convincing myself it was impossible. There was always a reason. The video, or JARVIS listening in or—or just the idea that you wouldn’t—that no one would…”

“Believe you,” she finished for him.

Steve kept silent. It sounded insulting, putting it like that—like telling his teammates he didn’t trust them to actually listen to him. But she knew what he meant: that Tony Stark had always passed for an insufferable asshole with a heart of gold and that Steve himself had lost weeks trying to wrap his mind around the truth.

“What he did to me…” Steve paused for a long, long time. “It felt like a natural continuation. After waking up from the ice, I mean. It just…” he looked down. “I guess it just gave shape to something I already felt.”

_You’ve been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy years._

_You gonna be okay?_

“So maybe that’s why I didn’t react for so long. Maybe deep down I thought it was supposed to be that way.”

“It’s not,” Natasha said.

Steve looked up at her, a little surprised.

“I know you might not see it before some time,” she went on, “but until you get there, you can take my word for it.” She said it again, in a low, grave voice. “It’s _not.”_

She laced her fingers with his, and it made him feel a little less ashamed and a little less alone; and as the sun suddenly painted the windows a glorious shade of gold, he thought maybe—maybe he could try getting some rest, now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. I can't wait to hear your thoughts. Thank you all so, so much for reading. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Spinning Through Grief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573072) by [Elfwreck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfwreck/pseuds/Elfwreck)
  * [Misunderstandings and Realizations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794133) by [ParkerStark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParkerStark/pseuds/ParkerStark)
  * [And nowhere to go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011765) by [krear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krear/pseuds/krear)




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